Four Nightmares
by xeyes
Summary: In which we destroy the rest of Henry’s beauty sleep in the four nights before SH4 begins. M for imagery and some mental mayhem. But hey, it’s SH, right? Spoilers for everything. Night 5 has come...and Henry is nearly ready for what awaits him.
1. Night 2 Part 1

**So...you didn't really think that Henry had his regular nightmare, drank a cup of cocoa and went back to sleep every night, did you? As if Walter would let him off that easily. I asked myself _why_ Walter kept him on ice for days before the hole opened in his bathroom...this is the result.**

**This gets rather wacky and intense at times, but I've let it go where it may. Spoilers for just about everything in the Silent Hill games. Standard disclaimers apply...you know the drill by now.  
**

**(Yes, this starts with "Night Two". You'll see why.)**

* * *

…he was waking up in the middle of the night. Or was it daytime? The windows were so dark…but somehow it felt like day, like late morning. His internal clock must be screwed up. 

_The ceiling is…stained…_

No, not stained.

_It's covered in blood…blood and rust…_

He could see now that everything was. The walls, the floor, the furniture…even the single bedside lamp that cast a faint circle of light on the nightstand.

…_I don't own a lamp like this…_

Everything was covered in reddish-orange gunk and cobwebs. Even the blanket on his bed was wet and crusty under his hand. It repelled him, and he pulled himself to his feet as quickly as he could to get the hell away from it. Still, it took longer than usual to figure out which way was up. As soon as he was upright, though, dual sledgehammers slammed into his temples, and he remembered about the headache.

…_it still hurts. My head's been hurting for days. Why?_

_Why_ wasn't as important just now, though. That could wait. He had to concentrate on standing up, which was taking a ridiculous amount of effort just now.

Something was unfamiliar about this room. It was his bedroom, had been for years, but…

…_I don't remember having a globe over there. Or these...these boxes in the closet…I don't even recognize the names on them. And…oh my God, where's my typewriter? I need my typewriter!_

There was something he had to type, something important that he had to tell somebody…but now he couldn't type it. He knew that there was no way that he could manage to write, either, not with his head like this…as much as the clack of each key on his old typewriter split his skull open, it wasn't as bad as the concentration it took just to move a pen over the paper of his old diary. He couldn't manage that, not any more. But it was important. _Really_ important, and he had to tell him…and now he couldn't, couldn't do a damn thing, couldn't even _remember_ now what it was. It was gone, too.

He managed to get the door open somehow. The bathroom door was still sealed shut, and the baseboard extended across it now. So, nothing doing there. But he hadn't needed to use it for days, so that was OK. He did need to get the hell out of his apartment, though, but the front door was in even worse shape. Its edges were beginning to blur into the rusty crud that coated everything out front, just as it had in his bedroom. All that remained was the faint shape of the paneling and the peephole, and the outlines of the doorknob and locks that were now completely useless.

There was a static-y noise. That was new. For that matter, so was the large black TV that sat where his record player had been. It was the source of the noise, and its screen was filled with snow. He stared at it in confusion.

…_I don't even watch TV. Why is this here?_

The pictures on the walls were unfamiliar, too…there was a small one of some guy he'd never seen before behind the floor lamp, a young man with dark hair in bad need of a haircut. Something in his brain told him that he should know who this was, but he shook it away. Ridiculous. He didn't know anybody that young well enough to put up a picture. The large one over the couch, though…

…_a pile of bodies, stacked to a point in the middle like a church spire. Reaching for…for what?_

_One, two, three…_

It took every ounce of concentration he could muster to count the people in the painting.

_Twenty-one bodies, I think, but there might be more under the pile. I can't see them well enough to know for sure._

_Twenty-one._

Damn it. Yet another thing that was important, really important, but that he didn't understand and couldn't remember. What was _wrong_ with him?

The appliances in the kitchen were different, too. There were odd magazines and books on his coffee table. He picked up one slim volume, but it was damp and the pages were stuck together. He could barely read the first few…it looked like a fairytale about a baby or something. Squinting to try to make out the letters just made his headache worse. He closed the book and dropped it back onto the table…

…and stopped cold. Somebody had pushed the cabinet by the sofa back into place. Where it had been before, before he'd…he'd made that hole in the wall…why had he done that, anyway? He didn't remember, except that it had taken days and days and in the end, he just didn't have enough energy left to finish it. Just above that cabinet, there was a strange shadow on the wall. He stood right in front of it and peered at it, ignoring the nearly-blinding pain that shot across the back of his skull. This _was_ important.

…_it looks like a face. That's weird. A face with its mouth open…screaming? Yawning? Maybe he's got a bad headache too. I don't know._

This was _VERY_ important. Damned if he knew why, but he had to tell him about it. It was the most important thing he'd ever had to do. His heart sank when he remembered that his typewriter was gone, but then he remembered the notebook that he'd seen sitting on his desk in its place. Maybe he could manage to work a pencil long enough to leave him a note…

He turned to the hallway, gripped the tall stool to his right, and began to make his way back to his bedroom. It was just then that he heard a noise behind him…he turned around so, so _slowly_ to see what it was…

…_oh no. Not now. I know who you are. _

Suddenly, something slammed into him, and he was knocked to the floor.

_Go away! I have to…_

...he was on his back. The room spun around him, orange-red rust and blood and cobwebs circling as the white, peeling face leered at him from above the overturned kitchen stool. Something black and goopy dripped from its eyes and mouth onto his face as he opened his mouth to scream.

But nothing came out but a gurgle.

The pain behind his eyes grew and grew. He was pinned. The face leered at him, its charnel breath choking him. As the rotten hands clawed at him, his vision blurred, and he knew no more.

* * *

Henry sat up in bed. He blinked once, then again. 

It took him a minute to realize that he was back in his bedroom, not in the front room, and that his walls weren't covered in blood and rust, but were their usual dingy off-white color. The sky outside was dark, but he was very awake. He was soaked in sweat, too, and cold. Very cold. He shivered for a few seconds, but not only from the chill.

_What...the...hell. _

Then, the obvious explanation presented itself.

_Oh...man. What a nightmare._

The far window was open a few inches to let in the cool night air. Henry hauled himself off of his bed, scrambled over to it and pulled it down. The old window slipped from his fingers and slammed shut with a BANG.

"Keep it down over there!" came the angry voice through the wall.

_What do you know...apparently, he **does** sleep when he's not..._

"Sorry," Henry called back.

He leaned back against his pillow, still wide awake. Light filtered through the windows from the garish neon signs across the street. It cast strange shadows across the room, reflecting off of the metal armrests of his chair and shimmering against the frames of the pictures by his desk. The digital clock on his nightstand glowed red in the dark.

_3:30. Man. I'll never get back to sleep now..._

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, grabbed his robe and trudged down the hallway. A short rummage around in his fridge produced a single bottle of chocolate milk. Only a few were left in there, along with an old bottle of white wine that he was going to get around to opening one of these days. He really needed to do some grocery shopping…he'd gotten pretty lazy about that lately. But it was enough for now. He'd do that tomorrow. Well, later today.

"_Cribs" isn't coming around here any time soon. I'll hold off on ordering the case of Cristal._

He pulled out one of the kitchen stools, then remembered his nightmare and thought better of it. Instead, he plopped down on the couch, unscrewed the top of the bottle, and lifted it to his lips as he reached for the TV remote.

_TV usually sucks at this time of night, but maybe there's a monster movie on or something..._

As it turned out, nothing came on at all. The remote didn't seem to be working, or maybe the on/off button was broken. Or maybe it needed new batteries. Well, he was out of those too. Henry got up and pushed the buttons on the TV itself, with no result. Nope, not the remote's fault.

_Crap. Damn thing's on the fritz again. _

It was too late at night to give the TV the loud smack that sometimes brought it back to life. That would have to wait till tomorrow, too.

_At least I have my chocolate milk._

Good old chocolate milk. Comfort food from his youth. His mother had always had some in the fridge, just in case little Henry had a bad day at school. No matter what was bothering him back then, chocolate milk always made it better. Still did. He'd bought a mini-fridge for his college dorm room just so he could have his chocolate milk when he needed it, and he'd always kept it stocked with a few bottles…well, that and an emergency six-pack of Jolt for late-night cram sessions. There were a lot of those. By all rights, he should have been a raving caffeine addict by the time he graduated, but somehow he'd escaped that fate. Who knows…maybe it was the chocolate milk. Nah, maybe not. Whatever.

Leslie had teased him mercilessly about it. They'd stopped by his room during their first date, so that he could grab his camera on their way to the lake by the PRU library. Once she found out that he was a photography major, she'd wheedled him into taking her picture by the lake, and he'd thought, _Why not?_ She was about as photogenic as they come, he thought, and it would probably make for a great image. As he opened his desk drawer and reached for his old camera, she'd pulled open the door of the mini-fridge and burst out laughing.

"Chocolate milk? Gawd, Henry. What are you, twelve?"

"Eight, actually," Henry muttered under his breath.

She hadn't shut up about it for the rest of the evening. Or the next evening, either. Or the day after that. By the time the weekend rolled around, Henry was sure that she'd yapped about it to everyone in his dorm and half of the female undergrad population, and when she didn't call him back after that he was very relieved. But now, he and his chocolate milk were alone in their front room at 3:35 in the morning, and it could only do so much to help him get his head in order.

_Pull yourself together. It was just a nightmare. Nothing remarkable about it. Five minutes from now, you probably won't be able to remember half of it._

_But it seemed so real...more than a nightmare usually seems. The pictures on the walls were different...and nothing seemed familiar. And the doors wouldn't open...and the windows...and the fridge stank. Like something had died in there. _

_And that ghost..._

_Wait. Ghost? It didn't look like...well, like a ghost is supposed to look._

_Come on, Henry. What's a ghost supposed to look like? A kid with a sheet over his head? Some see-through shadow saying "Boo"? What do you know about ghosts?_

_So how do I know that it was a ghost? Hell, it looked more like a corpse or something..._

Henry shook his head to clear out the images of red, everywhere red.

_Enough of that. It was just a dream. It doesn't matter._

He was tempted to open up one of the windows just to make sure they worked, but it would be far too noisy at this time of night. Instead, he drained the last of his chocolate milk, and padded back down the hallway to the bedroom.

Henry settled into the chair at his desk. It squeaked slightly as he sat down, and the noise echoed like a gunshot in the small room. He picked up the scrapbook in front of him and flipped it open to roughly where he remembered putting those notes on his latest project the previous evening. Perhaps he could get a little work done...

The scrapbook fell open to blank pages. Henry stared at it for a moment. Then, he turned the pages back and forth rapidly.

_Completely blank. Everything is...gone._

_Where could it all have gone?_

His head started to pound at that moment. The pain was as sharp as it was sudden, and he could barely see the desk in front of him. He closed the scrapbook and groped his way back over to his bed, scrabbled at the blankets, stuffed himself under the covers, and pulled them over his head. He curled up into a ball and squeezed his eyes shut miserably.

_And I ran out of ibuprofen last Thursday. Damn. This is the last time I go more than a week without picking up food and supplies. Thank God I don't have anywhere I need to be tomorrow. I'm going to be a wreck._

He felt himself falling asleep in spite of the jackhammers inside of his skull, and just had time to register surprise at the fact before he slipped into unconsciousness.


	2. Night 2 Part 2

Somewhere dark and warm...he couldn't see anything. He reached out, tentatively, to try to figure out where he was. Wherever it was…it was too warm...and it stank horribly. The stench was beyond anything he'd ever smelled before. That was for certain. Then, something bright from his left blinded him suddenly. He blinked a few times as his eyes adjusted. Shapes began to resolve themselves, and he blinked again in disbelief at what he saw in the flickering light.

He was in a very dark room, unlike anything he'd ever seen before. The floors were made of rusty chain-link fencing. Below that was nothing…the space seemed to extend into blackness. It wasn't just the floor, either. He was surrounded on all sides with more rusty chain-link. The heat was oppressive, and the stench was sickening…and the room was very, very small. He felt as if the walls were closing in on him. Suddenly, he couldn't stand it, not any more, and he looked around quickly for an exit.

_How am I going to get out of here? I can't see a door anywhere…_

To his left, a small circular hole occupied the center of the room. Metal spikes surrounded it, rotating like some sort of grinding machine. Suspended over it was something large and heavy…he couldn't see if very well, but whatever it was, it was alight.

_What the...oh my God, it's a body. A dead human body. On fire. What the hell is going on here?_

He felt himself starting to overheat. Badly. Something was very wrong here, and he wanted no part of it. No part at all, thank you. He just wanted the hell out of here…but there wasn't a door or anything. Nothing he could see. He felt panic rising.

_I'm not supposed to be in here. I have to get out._

But his path was blocked by a small man with a bow and arrow. A very small man, dressed like Robin Hood, who peered up at him with a frown.

_Up? He's very tiny...or is it me who's large? Everything else seems tiny too…the chain-link, the body on fire, all of it. Either everything has shrunk, or…no. It must be me. I'm huge._

This was starting to get surreal. The sight of the little man lifting his bow and aiming an arrow straight at his head didn't help.

…_and great, I'm about to get shot at. I don't even know this guy. There's no reason for this. _

He opened his mouth to tell the guy to lay off, but all that came out was a growl.

_Can't talk, either. Doesn't leave me many options. Still, a good whack from my front foot should knock him right out..._

_...front foot? Since when?_

Henry looked down at his feet. They were dark and scaly, and had fewer toes than feet should. The front ones, anyway...he couldn't see the back ones. Four feet…that was definitely new. What else had changed? He took a moment to assess his current…shape.

_Four feet…scales, no hair…and a tail? _

Yes, yes, and yes. Another half-second's thought told him everything he needed to know.

_Oh, this is just getting better and better. I'm a goddamn lizard. A fifteen-foot brownish-green lizard. No wonder I can't sweat…or move. This is the most screwed-up dream I've ever had…_

_Note for the future. Whatever it was that I had last night for dinner…I'm never eating it again. Not after this. No way._

The little man in front of him spoke. "I will kill the lizard..." he intoned. He sounded like something out of a bad fairy tale. Henry snorted.

_Like hell you will._

He swung one of his new heavy feet forward and smacked the little man, who flew backward and landed on his rear end, but jumped right back up again.

"Who's afraid of a reptile?" the man called. Henry stared at him in astonishment.

_Are you insane? Have you **looked** at me? I'm easily ten times heavier than you are. _

Still, the man stood there, unflinching, and Henry smirked in spite of himself.

_Whatever. Fine. I'll show you again, if you really want to know!_

But the arrow that hit him in the shoulder stopped him cold. He roared in frustration, and shook himself to try to dislodge it. Nothing doing there. It was stuck. His eyes squeezed shut as he roared again, this time in pain.

When he opened them, the heat and smoke were even thicker around him, like a heavy blanket. Every nerve in his distended scaly body was screaming at him. Now, the little man no longer looked like a refugee from a Mel Brooks movie. He wore a brown leather jacket, dark pants, and a serious expression. Of greater immediate interest was the shotgun in his hands.

_This is **not** good. One of us has to go down first…and it sure as hell isn't going to be me._

A shot hit him in the foot. Then, a click and rattle, and another tore through his shoulder, near where the arrow had slammed into him before. He snarled and stamped his foot in frustration. He was far too large and slow to dodge the shots, and he could barely turn around in the confining space. Defense wasn't an option...offense was all that he had. All he could do was lumber slowly around in circles, trying to catch up.

_Will…you…slow…**down**! _

Buckshot ripped into his side and back as the little man ran nimbly around him, stopping only to fire. He felt his own blood, cold and wet, as it seeped between his scales. After a few more minutes of this, he'd had enough.

_God DAMN that hurts!_

He opened his mouth to scream, but all that came out of him was some sort of green ooze. He stared in surprise as it dripped to the floor.

_He's too fast for me. But there's something else I can try...the old-fashioned way._

The man had stopped running, and was staring at him open-mouthed. Then, he lifted his gun and aimed it directly at his face. Henry raised his heavy head and opened his mouth as wide as he could. He felt skin and muscle tear, but still he pulled, and his roar turned into a shriek of pain as his head split open sideways. A thought appeared in his head and vanished a moment later.

_I'll swallow you up in a single bite!_

Somewhere in front of him was that annoying little brown-haired gnat...he had to be…not for long, though…

But he never got the chance to find out just where. He heard the report of the gun just before he felt the explosion in the back of his head. The world went red, then white.

* * *

He was writhing in agony. Pain like he'd never thought possible ran through him. He felt his skin stretch and contract, his bones snap and re-knit, his eyes bulge and swell and crawl around his skull...it was as if every part of him was being broken down and reworked, and the pain was beyond description. It was torture.

Torture…and a rush beyond his comprehension. Every fiber of his being vibrated with electricity. He wanted to fight the thrill, but he knew there was no escape, and so he had no choice but to surrender to it and simply let go. It was terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. Some tiny corner of his mind that wasn't wracked with pain noted the novelty of the whole situation, and had only one question…

_What is happening to me?_

* * *

He couldn't breathe!

Wait...yes, he could. Whatever it was that was surrounding him wasn't running into his nose or mouth. He could breathe just fine. After a moment, Henry realized that that was because he didn't have a nose, and only a tiny mouth. He was several feet long, without discernible arms or legs. He wriggled, and felt numerous little movements around him.

_...Feet. I have lots of little feet. What the hell am I? And where?_

He was encased in some dry, particulate substance, and something was moving around above him. He sensed that he was just below the surface of whatever it was that he was in, so he pushed his head up and hit air.

He was in a large room this time, surrounded by sand. His eyes broke the surface of the sand first, and he found that he was able to see almost all of the way behind himself. Pulling himself partway out of the soft, warm sand, he peered backward. Yes, he was several feet long, and pale and segmented…a caterpillar or a larva or something like that. Where was he, anyway? As he looked around, he took in the tall walls, the sheen of the glass at one end of the room…and the little man in the brown jacket at the other end.

_Bleh. Him again._

Henry spat out his frustration, which emerged as a thick stream of yellow acid that hissed as it hit the sand. Now, _that_ was a pleasant – and potentially useful – surprise. He hauled the rest of himself up, and crawled as quickly as possible toward the little man, who promptly lifted his shotgun and pointed it straight at him.

_...and the damn shotgun. Seriously, this is getting old. At least I know what happens next._

This time, he could maneuver more easily, and one swat of his thick back end sent the little man flying across the room. He and his gun landed heavily.

_Heh. That's better. _

He burrowed back into the sand, and spent a moment or two just enjoying the feeling of swimming through it like water. Henry had always enjoyed swimming, even though he hadn't been in the water in years, and he found that it was even better with several pairs of little feet to help push him along. They were short little feet, which would be frustrating on land, but in the sand he found them perfect.

_I could get used to this...eventually._

A footstep vibrated overhead, just in front of him. He poked his head up and spat again. This time, the acid hit its target, and the little man yelped in pain and stepped backward. Henry crawled right up to the stunned man and growled in his face.

_BOO! _

The man jumped backward with a look of sheer terror on his face. Henry laughed to himself. _Hey, this is kinda fun too..._

Normally, Henry wasn't the sort to enjoy smacking little guys with guns around. Not that he'd ever had the opportunity, of course. Quite the opposite…he usually steered clear of confrontations. But then, this wasn't really a normal situation...this was a dream, and he was feeling, well, kinda frisky. For once, he was the bully, and it was a novel experience. He could understand the appeal of it.

_...and back into the nice warm sand we go._

He'd toy with the man for a while longer, he thought. After all, he'd been perfectly happy to live and let live until the guy had plugged him with that first arrow back in the chain-link arena…now that he actually had a decent shot at fighting back, he had payback on his mind. Unfortunately, the little guy's shotgun skills seemed to be improving, and every time Henry came up for a spit and a whack, he was peppered with more shot. Time and time again. Even a several-foot-long heavy exoskeleton could only take so much.

_OK, this is losing its luster._

After several more hits, he'd had enough. He rolled up into a little protective ball, willing the man to disappear or evaporate or explode or spontaneously combust or any other option that would stop the gunfire.

It seemed to work. The shots stopped. Before the man could get any other ideas, Henry uncurled himself and made a break for it straight through the glass windows at the back of the room. Shards of glass lodged in his wounds and stung in a thousand places as the white light swallowed him up.

* * *

More agony, more screaming...but not as much this time. The changes were lesser. But, the feeling of his eyes inflating and bulging out of his head was _not_ a pleasant one. That, he could definitely have done without.

Now, he was inside a casing of some sort. It was form-fitting, and he could barely move. Through the translucent shell, he saw nothing but darkness. He wriggled, and the casing loosened its grip. So he wriggled some more and pushed against it with his feet (_those feel different, too…_). With a last shake, he felt the shell flex and crack. He slammed his head into it. It split from end to end and fell away, and he stretched out in relief.

_Much better. What the heck was that?...that was weird._

_Nothing else feels different...a little fuzzier, but otherwise the same. Fewer feet, I think. Legs, which is good. I can feel a breeze on my eyeballs…that's weird too…and I have wings now..._

_I have wings now! What** am** I?_

He struggled to remember his high school biology courses. What was that word again?

_My God, Henry, you've…pupated? And then some._

Even though he couldn't see them, he could tell that his wings were large and powerful. Time to try them out. He flapped experimentally, and rose several feet into the air. Flying was a surprisingly simple thing…well, it came naturally once you became a moth, didn't it? The thrill was unlike anything he'd felt before.

_Very cool. Always wondered what it would be like to be able to fly. I like wings. _

His eyes caught the white glistening surfaces moving in and out of his peripheral vision…buildings? With a few vigorous flaps, he found himself hovering twenty feet above the ground.

_Oooohhh...bright light..._

He flew up toward the glow high above him. It seemed to be at the top of some tower, high above the surrounding buildings. The little man was standing on top, looking around frantically. Henry peered at him, the man peered back, and out of the corner of his eye Henry saw a set of stairs collapse and drop from the top of the tower. He grinned to himself in dark satisfaction.

_Oh yeah. Your butt is mine. Nowhere to run now._

And so, the game began again. Despite the new wings, the basic plan remained the same. Henry swatted and spat, and the little man ran and shot. Spit and shoot…swat and shoot…it seemed that that was how this was going to work. The shotgun shells still hurt like before (_where does he get all of this ammo? His pockets are nowhere near large enough to carry all of it_), but Henry was better able to dodge the shots this time. His spit traveled further from a height, a bright fluorescent arc through the darkness. He hovered just above the man, swatting at him with his rump as before, turning to hit him before the gun went off.

_You know, I could almost get used to this...not for the long term, but for now it isn't bad. Wish this guy would just give up, though. What's the point of fighting me?_

At one point, he almost thought he had him. The man stopped firing and was running much more slowly. Then, he pulled a bottle from his pocket and chugged it quickly, and suddenly he was back up to speed. Henry watched in amazement as he danced nimbly in circles around him. It was as if he'd never been hit.

_Man, what's in those? Wish I had some…well, I can hold out for now. Let's see if he can._

But, he couldn't last forever. He felt himself weaken gradually as the shotgun did its work. His shell was riddled with holes, and as he swatted at the little man, he spattered him with his own blood. Finally, he could take it no more, and he fell heavily out of the air. His eyes closed against the blinding light that filled the sky.

* * *

Agony...shrinking...darkness...cold...damp...

This time, he was surrounded by warmth and wet. Completely. He wriggled, and found himself encased in...flesh. Living, warm, blooded flesh.

_I'm inside somebody's body. Strange._

It was soothing, like a comfortable blanket wrapped around him. Blood pulsed around him, and he was alive. Alive, and completely blown away by it all. Intoxicating, again…it all had been a dreamlike high so far, all of it…

Directly in front of him was something hard and vertical. It bent and moved, and he felt its flexion pull him back and forth.

_Move._

The intention issued from his brain and traveled straight into the solid column in front of him. He felt his surroundings shift and move forward. How did he know to do that?

_Interesting. I can control this body I'm in._

Suddenly, an image flashed through his mind. A carousel, with a man standing a short distance away. That man, again. Standing there, still as a stone and staring at him with a puzzled look. It was almost funny.

_Up and at 'em. Kill Harry._

The thought escaped him and traveled on its way to his host's brain. He felt himself being lifted vertically, then flesh contracted and expanded around him. Ideas were flowing from his consciousness into the flesh, so quickly that he was almost unaware of it. He saw a hand – his hand – raise a gun and shoot at the man, who staggered and stared with a stunned look at him as he advanced.

_Kill Harry._

_...who's Harry?_

The body was painfully slow to respond. Henry would have gritted his teeth in frustration, if he'd had any. He moved forward _so_ slowly, as the man unloaded round after round from his shotgun into his body. It was a two-way thing, this transfer, because now he could feel the shots ripping through, feel the blood running down onto his clothes and dripping to the metal floor of the carousel. He staggered under the barrage…two steps forward and one step backward. At least there was a gun in "his" hand…

_Kill Harry..._

_This must be Harry, then._

He lifted the gun and pulled the trigger. It clicked. Empty.

_Damn it! _

Reloading it would take more time than it was worth, if he even had any more bullets. He tossed the gun away and lifted his hands to Harry's neck. For the first time, he was able to look into the eyes of his attacker, this Harry, and the face he saw was an ordinary, amiable one, the face of a good man under a great deal of strain who was nevertheless hell-bent on eliminating the threat facing him.

_Can't really blame him there…_

These hands of his were strong, and Harry struggled in his grip. After a few seconds _(feels like forever)_, he freed himself and reached into his pocket. Another of those drinks, probably…or another weapon? The hand emerged, and in it was a transparent plastic bottle, like a sports bottle. In its bottom was a small amount of red liquid. Harry's thumb popped the top open, and he gripped the bottle tightly.

Then, Henry felt a sudden dread. Somehow, he knew what was coming. There was nothing he could do to stop it. He tried to run, but the damn body _wouldn't move fast enough..._instead, he watched as Harry lifted his arm in slow motion and drew the bottle back, then threw it with all of his might right at his head. The bottle bounced off of his nose, but the liquid hit his face, and it burned through his skin like acid. He screamed in agony. The flesh of his body spasmed around him, squeezing him painfully hard. He felt as though his shell would crack under the pressure. If he didn't get out, he was dead. He ripped at the muscle and skin with his little legs and feet.

_I have to get out of here...I'm going to die in here..._

Then, he was free of the wet flesh. He was crawling across the hard floor, desperately seeking a place to hide. The last thing he saw was the rubbery tread of a size 11 Chuck Taylor coming down toward him.

* * *

No pain this time, nothing but squirming and a thousand little bugs crawling under his skin. Unsettling, but not actually painful…nor thrilling. Was he getting used to it? He hoped not…

Instantly, he was surrounded by light. White, brilliant light, that warmed him and made him feel whole. It bound him, though, and he struggled to break free. He was stronger now, much stronger, and the light shattered into a thousand fragments around him as he threw off his bonds. Two legs, two arms…different, still, but more familiar. Even better, he had wings again…powerful wings. As he rose into the air, he felt enormous, like a god…

_A god. I am a GOD!_

He could feel the power running through his muscles and veins. It was a heady feeling, far beyond any previous experience. Just a little longer, and the universe would be his to command. As he surveyed his domain, a question popped into his head.

_If I'm a god…what am I a god of? All of this?_

And there was that man again. He had a rifle now, and was pointing it right at him. Henry was vaguely aware of other people in the room, but he was focused squarely on Harry and his rifle, mere speed bumps on his road to glory.

_For you, Harry, I'm a god of death. This is it._

A shell ripped into him, and he shrieked in pain and anger. Then another, and another…

_Wait! I'm a god…I shouldn't have to put up with this. I've had enough of you. Time to die, you little bastard!_

He stretched his fingers forward and at his command, red lightning shot toward Harry. The rifle dropped, and Harry started running as fast as his legs could carry him. Henry blasted him again, and again, and again. He took a grim pleasure in the thought that he could fry this man to a crisp if he'd just _stop running._ Ah well, running kept it interesting…

Henry tried to blast him one more time, but came up empty.

_Damn. Maybe I have to recharge. Ah well, he'll wait._

He hovered there, gathering himself, for a moment. Then, Harry lifted the rifle again, and Henry knew what was coming. Pain ripped through him. Once, twice, three times…

_I didn't know that gods could bleed._

After the sixth shot, Henry knew he was ready.

_Zap! Zap! BOOM!_

The room crackled with the power that Henry felt flowing through him. Harry staggered backward, and pulled something from his pocket as he started to run. Henry couldn't see what it was that he was doing, but whatever it was seemed to help him…his step quickened, and he dug into his pocket and reloaded his gun.

Henry roared in frustration.

_How the hell am I supposed to kill this guy if he keeps shooting at me and I can't do a damn thing about it?_

He felt himself weaken with every shot. Harry was just too fast for him…his bolts of lightning missed more often than they hit. He couldn't take much more of this. But he was a _god…_this was unthinkable…

Then, his wings wouldn't flap any more, and he fell heavily to the ground. As the life drained from him, he saw his world go dark, and one last thought passed through his mind.

_This isn't over, Harry Mason. You haven't heard the last of me…_

* * *

His face was pressed into something soft...fabric.

Henry opened his eyes. Whatever it was was light-colored and smooth. It smelled familiar. His hands slid up to his shoulders, and he pushed himself up and looked around. After a second or two, he realized that he'd been lying face-down on his own bed.

_Another nightmare. _

He flopped back down, then rolled onto his back and stared at his ceiling fan as it spun round and round.

_Another crazy-ass nightmare. Two in one night...that's a first. Thank God._

Then he remembered something.

_No, I'm wrong. I had two last night...if you count the second one as a nightmare._

Last night was the first time he'd had the dream about the ghost and the blood on the walls. He was very sure of that. But after he'd gone back to sleep, he'd dreamt about the class tarantula from first grade. It was the biggest bug he'd ever seen at the time. It had been huge and hairy and dark and crawly, and he'd been simultaneously fascinated and repelled by it. It always seemed to be watching everything around it with its big bulbous black eyes, and he suspected that it understood a lot more than it let on. People who watched other people a lot usually did.

One afternoon, during lunchtime, he'd somehow ended up alone in the classroom with the animal in its cage, and he'd watched it for several minutes before he suddenly had the urge to take it out of the cage and stomp on it. He'd stopped himself then, and felt very bad about wanting to kill it. After school, he'd told Mom, and Mom had hugged him and told him that he'd done the right thing, and then she'd given him a cold bottle of chocolate milk and let him sit in the kitchen with her as she prepared dinner. She'd even let him help with the salad. That day hadn't turned out so bad after all, and Henry had felt good about it in the end.

But in the dream...no, in the dream he'd opened up the tarantula's cage. He'd taken it out and let it crawl around on his hand, feeling its hairy feet pulling and pushing lightly at his skin. He'd raised it up to his face and stared into its round eyes, and known that it was staring right back. Challenging him. It could see right into his head…those beady black eyes could see everything. They had to. He didn't like the idea of this thing in his head…not at all.

He lowered his hand to the floor, and the tarantula crawled off and sat there, momentarily still. Still watching him. Then, he'd lifted up his sneaker and the spider had gone SPLAT in a wet, furry mess, all over the floor. His sneaker treads were filled with short dark fur and spider guts that left sticky footprints as he walked out of the room. He could hear the wet squashing noises as he walked away. It felt good, really good. That thing…it was evil, he knew it. And now it was gone. Killing it had made the world a better place. He remembered smiling...

He'd woken up then, almost as freaked out as he'd been after the first nightmare.

_That's not me...I wouldn't have done that. I wouldn't do it now. But if it wasn't me, who was it?_

Yes, that counted as a nightmare. He wasn't sure which had been worse…the knowledge that he'd killed the tarantula, or the incredible rush that had come from killing it. But this one had been far worse.

_Usually I don't remember them, but I won't forget that one any time soon. It was so real...well, it seemed real. From here, it seems insane. But in there...it was happening..._

_The weirdest thing is...I felt good smacking that man, Harry, around. Like stomping on that tarantula last night. Like it was my single mission in life, like he was in my way. Like it was what I was supposed to do. _

_But that's not me. I don't go around trying to kill people like that...I avoid people when I can. Anyway, what did he ever do to me? I don't know the man. Not at all. Never met him, never even heard of him. Doesn't seem like the type to do something to deserve getting shot at by lizards and bugs and gods._

_Why did that feel so damn good? I didn't want…I don't want it to…_

Henry shook his head. He immediately regretted it, as his headache was back with a vengeance.

_Whatever. It's just a dream. Healthy expression of aggressive urges or some pop-psych crap like that. Never going to actually happen, right?_

The sun was shining warmly through his window. It was sometime in mid-morning. Henry sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Time to start his day.


	3. Day 2

The day hadn't gone very well.

Henry had stayed home all day. This was not an unusual thing...more often than not, he had no need to go out, he found, so he remained in his apartment. Just as he had yesterday. He hadn't even felt like making the short trek downstairs to pick up his mail then…whatever it was, it could wait, right?

However, today he had stayed home for the simplest of reasons...his door wouldn't open. It was stuck. Very, very stuck. No amount of pulling or pushing or slamming his shoulder into it had any result. Several minutes later, all he had to show for his effort was a bruised, throbbing shoulder…and his door was still stuck shut.

So he picked up the phone and dialed the super. He got his answering machine instead.

"This is Frank Sunderland. Leave your name and phone number and your message and I'll call you back. Yeah, I know about the trash chute. I'm working on it."

The voice was gruff, but Henry knew that it was just his manner. He'd never had a problem with Frank, and Frank never had a problem with him. They weren't close friends, but neither did they dislike each other. Frank had actually been very nice to him when he'd moved in…he'd even given him a large picture of Venice that he'd acquired somewhere. It now hung over Henry's couch. He didn't know what the gesture meant, but he appreciated it nevertheless. Frank didn't seem like the kind of guy who randomly went around giving people framed photographs. Still, Henry didn't like to bother him…at the time, he'd sensed there was something about the older man, some sadness deep inside that Henry sensed was probably best left alone. Even after he'd found out accidentally later what it was, he didn't want to bring it up. In this situation, though, he had no choice but to call him about the door.

"Hey, Frank, it's Henry in 302. Uh…my door's stuck. Really stuck. Can't get it open. So…could you come up and have a look at it? I can't get out, so I guess I'll be here all day. Thanks." He left it at that. No need to annoy him any more than necessary. He had enough food in the apartment for a day or two...Frank would probably come by that afternoon with a crowbar or something, anyway. He was usually pretty good about that. So, he'd be in his room till then. Might as well get some work done.

_Dammit. That's right. All of my notes are gone. That's several hours of work down the tubes. I'm going to have to start over. Hope I can remember what I did…through this headache._

The day had passed quickly enough after that. Henry spread his papers and things across the coffee table and tuned the TV to a twenty-four-hour movie channel. Usually, he was happiest and most productive with some old star-studded mega-studio Technicolor blockbuster running in the background while he buried himself in his work. Today, though, nothing really interesting presented itself on the screen for the entire day…and nothing really interesting presented itself to him by way of inspiration. He knew that he'd had some fantastic idea the last time he worked on this a few days ago, but no matter how he tried, he couldn't remember either what he'd thought of or what he'd done. Damn headache was getting in the way. He had to content himself with routine mediocrity on both counts, which irritated him. Still, even mediocrity took time, and when he looked up from his still-incomplete project, it was almost midnight.

_Damn. Where did the day go? Down the tubes, that's where. Nothing but crap-tacularity. Probably end up redoing half of this anyway. An almost total waste of a day. God, I hate that…_

_Ah well, no big deal, right? I'll finish this tomorrow, or the day after that. It's not due for a week or so. Time isn't an issue here._

Henry turned off the TV and stood and stretched, hearing things pop that he didn't know could pop. His shoulder still hurt, but less than before. He realized that he hadn't eaten anything in hours...that happened a lot when he got going on a project. He wasn't very hungry, though, so he just fixed himself a bowl of cereal before heading down the hallway, trying to ignore the slight annoyance that was poking at his brain.

As he turned out the light by his bed, his eye caught the phone sitting on his nightstand, and he remembered his call to Sunderland about his door.

_Weird...he never came by today. Must have been busy. Tomorrow, then. No rush. Hell, for all I know, the door was stuck yesterday too. Whatever._


	4. Night 3 Part 1

Henry awoke in a sweat again, nerves jangling. He blinked in surprise at the lack of rust on his walls, then a few more times before he was able to collect himself. No red webby walls, no crusty blanket...no, everything was normal.

_Dammit. The same nightmare._

Once again, his bedside clock read 3:30 AM.

_And all isn't well._

This time around, he walked right past the fridge. Instead, he turned on the light over the stove and pulled a heavy, just-over-half-full glass bottle from the cabinet to the right. His hand reached for a glass, but stopped in midair. Instead, he plopped down onto his couch and unscrewed the cap of the bottle. He lifted it to his lips and took a deep swig of its contents as he picked up the TV remote and pressed the power button.

Nothing happened. He tried again. Amazingly enough, the screen flickered to life...

...and blasted static. He turned down the volume quickly and flipped around the channels with one hand as he held the bottle to his mouth with the other. Same here…and here…and on the twenty-four-hour news station…and on the public access station. Even the program guide station was gone.

_Great. TV works, but the cable's out. I know I paid the bill last week. Damn. If it isn't one thing, it's another. _

So he was in exactly the same place he'd been twenty-four hours earlier…up in the middle of the night, nerves shot to hell, on his couch with a bottle in his hand. Different type of bottle, though...very different.

_Clearly, the world is conspiring against us, bottle. It's just you and me now._

Twenty minutes later, the screen was still blasting static. Henry, however, was unconcerned by this, having nearly emptied his bottle and thus enveloped himself in a happy fuzzy haze that brightened everything he saw. He dangled the bottle in front of his eyes, and watched the blurs resolve into letters.

_Sto-lich-na-ya. An-es-the-sia. I hope._

No wonder that he'd knocked himself out that quickly, since there was nothing at all in his stomach. He knew damn well that his gut would be a deep black hole of fire the next morning, but he didn't care. About anything, really…and that was exactly the point.

_God, when **was** the last time I got drunk? Not on my birthday, just had a few glasses of wine with my dinner, that was all. No, it was before that…_

* * *

Last New Year's, actually. Just him in his room, after he'd laid in bed for half an hour trying to ignore the racket from the party across the way, then another half hour with his pillow over his head trying to drown it out. Then, he'd given up.

_Screw it. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em_.

So, he'd trudged to the kitchen, dug out this selfsame bottle, broken the seal on the top and dropped into the chair by the window. He leaned over the chair back and nudged the window open and waited, listening to the music and the voices and the laughter that drifted through the window from somewhere nearby, and sipping from the bottle. As the clock counted down to midnight, he lifted the windowsill open further and leaned out of the window into the chill of the night. The air was fresh and clear, which was more than could be said for Henry himself. He felt dirty and random, which hadn't been the intended effect...not that he'd had one in mind anyway. But it really didn't matter, of course. He was fuzzy and happy, and that was what was important.

Voices floated up from the party down below.

"Five...four...three..."

He lifted the bottle to his mouth and noted idly that it was almost half-empty.

_Where did all that go? Into me, I guess. Heh. Which is just fine._

He smiled, and dribbled a little of the vodka onto his chin. His other hand came up to wipe it off, and as he turned his head he saw someone several feet away, leaning out of the window to his left. His neighbor...what's her name...Eileen. The wind stirred her straight dark hair as she turned to face him. He was just at that level of drunk where everything seemed sharper and crisper, and the motion of each individual strand fascinated him just then. He found himself staring as it swung and blew in the breeze. Then, he caught himself staring, and saw that she was smiling at him. He smiled back.

_Never noticed it before…but she's really nice to look at._

From far below, popping and cheering announced the arrival of the New Year. She grinned, and mouthed something over the noise of Auld Lang Syne.

_Happy New Year._

He raised his bottle to her, and drank deeply.

* * *

But that was months ago. Now, he was by himself on the couch with nothing but a rapidly emptying bottle of vodka, a useless TV and a desire to never go to sleep again.

_Wonder what Eileen's doing now. Probably fast asleep._ _I should be, too. Can't stay up forever._

_I hate drinking alone. Which is why I don't drink often, I guess._

He drained the last of the vodka and stood up. He was alone, yes, but he was feeling _good._ His arms stretched out wide in sheer contentment. The room spun in the opposite direction of the ceiling fan, and so it seemed to stand still for a long, long moment. Time for bed. He pointed himself toward the bedroom and staggered down the hall, not noticing the bottle drop from his hand. The bed loomed large and blue in front of him, and as his head swam he fell onto it heavily.

* * *

_I...am._

He was conscious of nothing else.

_I...am...here._

He turned his head slowly. It felt so heavy...

He was standing in the courtyard of some building he'd never seen before. It was an apartment building, about the size of South Ashfield Heights, but with a different layout. This one was L-shaped, not U-shaped. Neatly cut grass lay in front of him, and as he turned around, he saw a raised swimming pool behind him. Fog swirled all around. He felt...huge. All over. Massive. The ground lay much further from his eyes than he was used to. He was enormous and powerful and fearsome. It was...

The long, thin spear in his hand rested lightly in his grip. He turned to his right, and entered the building in front of him. He knew what he had to do.

He felt like a puppet. His body was moving, but he wasn't telling it where to go. It was as if he was some sort of remote-control robot...he saw things and felt things, but he was just along for the ride.

Walking was laborious. His legs felt so heavy. Up the stairs. Every step was like lifting weights. Through the door. Down the hallway, then left, then further.

_**208**_

A man sat in an armchair several feet away from a television, watching...nothing. Static blared, yet the man's blond head stared straight ahead. As Henry moved toward him, the man sat motionless, as if...

_Waiting for me._

And now he knew why, and what he was about to do, and…

He raised the spear in his hand, and plunged it into the man's chest. The man jerked forward, gurgling, then sagged back into the chair as warm blood spurted forward. He tugged on the spear to pull it back out, but it was stuck in the bone and flesh. He only succeeded in pulling the chair, man and all forward, leaving a long smear of thick red on the ground to match the thick red that now coated the man's entire front and obscured whatever color his clothes had once been. Finally, he pulled the spear free, and blood gushed onto the TV screen. The wetness drenched him to the skin. The dead man's hair was no longer yellow...but his eyes were still open, and he was faintly smiling.

_Oh my God. What have I just done? I've killed a man._

Another thought came, unbidden and unwelcome.

…_good._

Whose thought was that? Not his...but in his head. So it had to be his…but something wasn't right. This had happened before…thoughts that weren't his…but he couldn't remember when or why. He turned away from the blood-soaked body and moved toward the back of the apartment. The clock slid aside smoothly to allow his passage.

In the next room, he noticed a picture on the wall. He couldn't quite make out what the image represented, so he stepped closer for a better look. But what he saw in the reflection startled him almost out of his skin. He cried out before he realized that he was looking at himself. He had...no head. Just an enormous, bloody, rusted helmet. It was all angles, and came to a point at the top. He wore a heavy white cotton smock, stained with fresh blood and dirt and something else. His lower legs and feet were nearly black with the stuff.

_That's why my head feels so heavy...because it is..._

Still, the weight of the helmet seemed to be keeping his headache in check. As he emerged from the room, he saw bars blocking the hallway behind him.

_Strange. But it doesn't matter. They're not for me...they're for him._ The back of his mind asked, _For whom?_

Footsteps approached, and Henry gripped his spear tightly. But on the other side of the bars, he saw him.

_The man I just killed. No, of course not…but very like him._

The man looked exactly like the body in the chair in 208...except that this one was alive, and breathing hard, and staring back at him in shock and fear. He seemed so puny, with his little wooden board in his hand. The few bent nails in the end of the board wouldn't hurt a fly. So weak. No match for him. Not even close.

As he stood facing the smaller blond man in the green jacket, Henry knew that he was looking at the reason that he was here.

_For you, James._

_We were sent here for you._

* * *

There were..._things_…in the hallway. Monstrous things. Things with four legs and no body that walked upright on long, slender, shapely female legs. Things with their entire upper bodies covered in skin and flesh, waggling armlessly along and hissing obscenely through slits in their chests. Things like Henry had never seen before. He was terrified, couldn't believe what he was seeing, but at the same time he…

_This feels familiar somehow. Like this whole place is…like I've been here before. I know why I'm here, so maybe that's it. But it doesn't make any sense._

As he shuffled down the hall on the third floor, two of the four-legged things came up to him, swinging their hips and shaking their upper legs at him. Like they wanted something. That second voice in his head said _Heh. I know what you want. I know what you **need**. _ He grabbed each one by a leg and dragged them down the hallway to an empty room.

_What am I doing?_

But he couldn't stop his arms and legs from opening the door and dragging the two things into the room. The light in the small kitchen area was dim. He threw one, then the other, against the counter. They lay there, twitching limply.

_Oh God..._

Henry realized with horror what he was about to do…and he couldn't do a damn thing about it.

_Oh God..._

As he moved closer, his horror was joined by an even worse sensation...he was...

_No...this isn't happening..._

But it was most definitely happening, and it was happening to _him_. And he...God help him...he was _enjoying_ it. More every second, in ways both familiar and alien. His mind rebelled in horror at the same time as it thrilled to the sensations engulfing him. He hadn't known that pleasure like this could be so agonizingly acute...and so repulsive. He couldn't stop it, and he couldn't block it out. He should be feeling nauseated, wanting to retch his guts out, but he couldn't even do that...

…_please…stop this…stop…_

But whoever or whatever was driving this body didn't seem to care. He really was just along for the ride. The pleasure and the horror built up, more and more of both, and he couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

_Kill me...now...please…_

He felt his head being ripped apart and his brain being turned inside out as he fought like hell to deny what was happening, and he was losing the fight. His skull was going to blow into tiny pieces any moment now...at least that would end this torment...

Somewhere in the distance, a door opened. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of yellow hair, and he realized that that man -- James -- had entered the room. He saw him slip into a closet, trying not to be seen.

_Too late_.

And just like that, it was over. One of the things slumped to the ground. He took hold of the other and dragged it out of the kitchen, dropping it

_it...that seems so wrong somehow..._

on the floor as he went. The unbearable pleasure was gone, thank God, replaced by a dull ache. A heavy, dull, metallic ache. The headache was back. He had to get this damn helmet off, now, or it was going to crush his eggshell skull. The thing on the floor kicked up at him, and he planted his foot square in its belly. It lay still. He tried and tried, but no matter how hard he pulled at the huge metal helmet, he couldn't budge it. It wasn't going anywhere soon...

Then, gunfire erupted from the closet. The bastard was shooting at him! The bullets echoed in his ears as they bounced off of the helmet, like daggers through his skull, and he stumbled toward the door.

_God damn him! _

He threw open the door and lurched into the hallway. Down the hall, down the stairs, into the courtyard. Anywhere to get away from the noise...

* * *

Henry gradually came to the realization that he wasn't alone. He could feel it...there was another like him out there somewhere. It was oddly reassuring.

_Henry..._

He heard it (him? her?) speak to him in his head. Was it really speaking his name?

_Henry...go..._

_Go to the stairwell. He will meet you there soon._

* * *

The small room was empty. He waved his hand, and the stairs below filled with silvery water. James wouldn't be going anywhere soon.

Movement caught his eye. A single armless creature was huddled in a corner, scrabbling away, trying to crawl into the wall.

_And neither will you._

It was trying so hard to not be seen...and failing so miserably. He laughed to himself.

_Smart. But futile._

He grabbed it and pulled it out of the corner, ignoring its muffled cries. He shoved its head roughly into his abdomen. The horror came flooding back again…and so did the pleasure.

_Yeah. You know what to do..._

Just then, the door opened, and in wandered James, oblivious as usual to everything going on around him...and, as usual, arriving right in the middle of things. With a twist, he flung the creature to the floor, and turned to the new arrival. His hand tightened around the handle of the knife that dragged behind him.

_Time to play, James..._

Bullets pinged off of his helmet again, but he did his best to block out the pain. James was running from one end of the little room to the other, too quickly, and he couldn't get a good bead on him. Finally, James stopped, exhausted, and he gripped the huge knife firmly and started to lift it.

_Goodbye, James._

But just as he was about to slice the man in two, he heard it, in the distance...

Killing James would have to wait. The siren was calling him home. Down the stairs he went, and as he opened the door at the bottom, the waters rushed out and he felt himself dissolving into a million little pieces in the daylight...

_It's Her turn now, Henry. Let Her do Her job._


	5. Night 3 Part 2

It was later, he didn't know when. He didn't know where, either. What he did know was that night had fallen. The earth's night, or the town's night?

_Doesn't matter._

He was in a narrow stairwell in a building, surrounded by windowless concrete and railings. It was as generic as they come, so he had no idea what kind of building this was. Nowhere to go but down…or through the door in front of him.

Henry's hands were sweaty for some reason he didn't understand. They squashed wetly inside the strange three-fingered gloves he had on. He pulled off the gloves and wiped his palms on his jeans, which didn't feel like jeans. The fabric was thick and soft, and somewhat damp, and hung loosely on his legs.

_The smock. I'd forgotten._

He turned the knob silently. The door opened. To his left, he heard movement, and out of the corner of his eye he could see a blond head moving in the harsh light of the roof.

_There he is._

James turned around and stared at him in shock. He backed up slowly as Henry approached. The man's bland, stupid face goggled at him as he neared the fence. He was enjoying this.

_Who's afraid of the big bad wolf, James? Little Red Riding Hood you ain't._

Henry leaned forward and grinned at the smaller man, even though he knew the helmet hid his face. Then, he straightened up and swung the blade toward James.

_BOO! Man, that never gets old._

James stumbled and fell backward against the fence. It wobbled for a long moment, then gave way, and tumbled down the side of the building, taking James with it. Henry lifted the knife and held it with both hands as he heard the third-floor roof give way…then a crash and a _whump_ that signaled the end of James' fall.

_That's gotta hurt_.

He nodded his head once, then turned away.

* * *

Taunting this sorry excuse for a man was getting to be fun. Hard work, but fun. And now, his target was not alone; he had a woman with him. But no matter. Everything was proceeding according to plan. 

As James and his companion ran down the narrow, winding corridor, Henry stalked them, spear in hand. James could have gotten away with no problem, of course, but the woman was slower and wearing heeled boots, and couldn't manage more than a quick trot. Easy pickings. _She_ had underestimated the chivalry of the man, though. Or perhaps not. As they rounded a corner, he was astonished to see James turn, gun in hand, and start firing at him. It had no effect, of course, except to give Henry's headache a boost from the echo inside the metal helmet, but it did slow him down enough to give them more time to escape.

It was all in vain, of course. James shot into the elevator at the end, and reached for the woman's hand as she hurried forward. Not fast enough, though. Henry walked forward slowly as the elevator doors began to close between the two, arms reaching through the doors as she screamed in terror. Then his spear came up and crashed through the woman's back like a stick through a marshmallow. James cried out, and reached for her, but it was too late. Her knees sagged, then gave way, and the doors closed as her arm dropped and she slid wetly to the floor. The elevator squeaked and rumbled as it began its ascent back up to the hospital.

There was blood all over the doors, on the walls, on the floor. Blood everywhere. She lay crumpled in a heap. He jerked his spear back out of her, and she was still.

Just as planned.

* * *

Henry was hearing the Other in his head again. 

_Meet me...in the lobby, Henry. Soon._

The Other was cold and wet, he could feel it. And…ashamed.

_He has my knife. He was too fast for me._

_That's OK_, Henry replied. _Don't let it bother you. I have mine. And I won't need it there. Are you OK down there?_

_I'm fine. We're almost done, Henry. Almost done._

* * *

There was something beautiful about the dark room. Beautiful and cold and dark and so comforting. From up on the platform, the red carpet looked like a pool of velvety blood, the ancient seal's concentric circles like ripples. He felt at home here. 

Beside him, the Other stood, spear in hand. He nodded, and the Other nodded back. In front of them both, She dangled in the metal frame. A smile played about Her lips.

_Soon, gentlemen,_ he heard her say. _He knows now. We're almost done..._

Footsteps echoed far below, outside the door. He was there, stumbling around blindly as he had all day. Things were different now, though. Now, he knew. They all knew.

_Blind and deaf and dumb. No longer._

And there he was, the man of the hour, staring up at them open-mouthed like a fish, screaming uselessly. Contempt flooded through Henry, contempt and nausea and hatred and

_Power. _

_Can you feel it?_

_Yes. Yes, I can._

_Isn't it..._

_...yes. It is._

Finally, everything was as it should be. He saw Her head turn from one side to the other, screaming in denial, in faux-terror, and the Penitent fell to his knees, begging, _pleading_ for them to stop. His words fell on deaf ears, of course. This was all as planned.

_He's ours, Henry,_ said the Other. _It's time._

Henry nodded. _Do it_.

His hand steadied the cold black metal as the Other stepped forward. Below them, She writhed in anticipation as the Other's spear lifted into the air, then thrust home with a _squish_. The sound of James' agonized cries echoed through the room, and a delicious liquor filled Henry's veins. His head tilted back as the blood sprayed over him, over the Other, over everything. He could almost taste it.

_The stuff of life...and death. Oh God…_

The pleasure was just as overwhelming as it had been back in the apartments, but this time it was more than welcome. It washed over him, flowed through his veins, made him whole.

James was still on his knees, mouth open in a silent scream. His head fell forward, and he started mumbling to himself. Something about how he was weak...about needing punishment for his sins. Me, me, me. Always the same thing.

_That's exactly it, James. It was always about you. Never about her. Always you. That's why we're all here. You useless, selfish bastard._

Then, he and the Other were on the red carpet, and James was struggling to his feet. He lifted his head with a new resolve. "Now it's time to end this," he said, turning to them. _Yes, it is,_ he thought with relief.

What Henry found most amusing, as he and the Other chased James around the room, was that James actually thought they were going to kill him. Like he was ever going to get out of this that easily. Like a simple death by skewering would have satisfied Her. Like She didn't want him for herself.

But then, James had always been rather dense.

_Ouch!_ But good with a shotgun, it seemed.

_How much longer?_ he asked.

_Not much,_ the Other replied. _Sorry, but gotta swallow some shots here. Have to wear him down for Her. She needs us to._

So Henry sucked it up and swallowed another bullet to the chest and advanced on James, who was backed into a corner. He felt the crunch as his spear hit bone in the man's shoulder, and the cry of pain sent a thrill deep into his core.

A few more turns around the room, and Henry was running out of breath. His head and legs were so heavy...and lifting the spear was getting harder and harder. Blood dripped from its end...James' blood. His own soaked into his smock, and he was leaving wet, red footprints as he moved. Pain shot through his body with every step. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Other stagger, and he knew that it was time.

_We're done,_ he said. _This is enough._

The Other nodded, and they both moved to the center of the room.

_It's been a pleasure._

_And for me._

_Until we meet again,_ the Other said as the spear came up.

_Will we?_

_Yes. We will._

As one, they turned the spears upward, positioned the points under their helmets, and

_Leaned_

And Henry sat up in bed, shaking uncontrollably.

His eyes darted around his bedroom. It was dark as usual, except for the usual glow of the night. The bed was damp, and it took a moment for him to realize that it was his own sweat soaking the sheets. Again. And that he was shivering…again…and stark naked. _That_ was new.

He ran a hand over his face as best he could without poking his own eye out with a trembling finger. So far, so good. Nose...eyes...mouth, all there. No sign of heavy rusted metal anything. Visual inspection showed no bullet holes or other wounds, and nothing out of the ordinary, apart from the lack of his usual T-shirt and shorts. His mind raced as he fumbled around for his clothes.

_What the HELL was that about? Where was I? WHO was I? _

_Who was that guy...James? He looked familiar somehow, but I don't think I know him. All I remember is knowing that I was there to punish him for something...for what? What did he do that was so horrible that he deserved all that? I knew in the dream, but I don't remember now. Something unthinkable, something that earned him all of that torture. God only knows what._

His own body felt strange to him, so small and fragile compared to the freakishly huge frame that he'd inhabited in his dream. His arms should be able to reach under his desk from here, but he could barely get a hand under the bedframe at this angle.

_I'm what, six-feet-and-change? And that…thing had to be at least seven feet tall. I haven't felt this tiny since before I hit puberty. It was like driving a huge tank or something…_

_Dammit, where the hell are my boxers?..._

_It was worse than last night…I couldn't do a damn thing about any of it. It **was** just like being in a tank…with someone else driving. I could only watch…and feel._

_Was that really me? No, it couldn't be. Those thoughts...those actions...I'd never do what I did there, never. So who was it?_

_The thrill of it...sick. Sick that anybody should get a rise out of that pain, that terror..._

Then he remembered, in the apartments...

Henry lurched out of bed and shot across the little hallway. He fell to his knees and emptied his stomach into the toilet as the images and feelings flooded back through his mind, memories that he was powerless to stop. The tumult in his head and the spasms in his gut made sure of that, and they fed off of each other until finally he was left drained and shaking. He gripped the edge of the toilet bowl, slumped to the ground, and curled up into a ball, shivering uncontrollably, as the sweat evaporated off of his skin.

After a while, his shaking slowed, then stopped. His hand reached up for the edge of the counter, and he pulled himself to his knees, then to his feet. He flushed the toilet and unscrewed the bottle of mouthwash with an unsteady hand. As he swished the mouthwash around, he looked at his reflection through the damp hair hanging over his eyes.

_You need a haircut_, a part of his brain said.

_I need a good night's sleep_, was the response.

Maybe it was the booze. Yeah, that must be it. Drinking always left him with crazy dreams, and he had had more of both tonight than he'd had in a long, long time. Vodka in particular seemed to cause his subconscious to go haywire. Dammit, he should have remembered that before he started drinking. Not that it would have stopped him from doing so.

He spit into the sink and reached for the hand soap.

But even on his worst nights, he'd never dreamt anything like this. It had all seemed so real...like remembering something that happened to him long ago. Not like a dream at all. He could feel the weight of the knife in his hands, feel the damp heavy fabric clinging to his legs, feel the grim satisfaction of giving that bastard James what he deserved, since _he_ was the monster, James, not the things in the hallways or him in his helmet or _her_ or any

_Stop it._

Henry splashed water on his face, dried his hands on the towel by the sink and rummaged around in the back of the top left shelf by the shower. Ah, there it was. He unscrewed the cap of the three-sided bottle and took a deep gulp, even though he knew that it would take a lot more than that to calm things down.

Still, it was worth a shot.

His clothes were in a pile under the foot of the bed. He pulled them on slowly, and sat back against the pillow. Wide awake he was, and wide awake he'd stay until the day came. It was the only way he could be sure of escaping the nightmares. As he sat there, determined not to go back to sleep, he realized the flaw in his plan.

_God damn it. I can't stop thinking about it..._

_That one was really bad. And I thought that last night's was horrible…this was ten times worse._

_But it felt good, again. Might as well admit it here and now. It felt beyond good. I was huge and powerful and could toss that little asshole around like a feather, like nothing. Him, the four-legged monsters..._

Henry felt the bile rise in his throat again, but he swallowed hard.

_I was like a god. The Other was, too. Just like me. I've never felt so connected with anyone in my life as I did with the Other. We were like two halves of the same person, two parts of the same god. The only one higher up was She. And She ruled everything. Ran the whole show._

_How did I know all of that? That's the weirdest part of all of it. Sometimes, it was as if somebody was rooting around in my head. Putting in thoughts that weren't mine. They were so much more intense..._

_Who was doing that? Was I thinking his thoughts? Whoever really owned the body that I was in? Were they his? Must have been. Got to have been. I sure as hell hope they weren't mine…they couldn't have been...not mine...no…no thoughts..._

Henry's eyes snapped open. Damn it, he was dozing off. There was nothing he could do about that, either. He hated feeling helpless.

_Maybe with the booze out of my system, I won't dream at all...if I'm lucky..._

As he slipped under, he heard a voice from far away. It was a male voice, soothing and smooth.

_**Sleep well, Henry. While you can**._

_Who is that?_ he wondered...


	6. Day 3

Henry woke up the next day feeling like crap. Absolute and utter crap. His eyes opened to the glowing red numbers of his alarm clock.

_3:30 AM. What the…_

After a moment or two, his brain registered the bright sunlight streaming through the window, glaring off of the walls, and reflecting off of the chrome of his desk chair straight into his eyes. Whatever the hell time it was, it wasn't 3:30 in the morning. He realized that the clock was malfunctioning.

_God damn it…_

He reached for the time-forward button, but before his hand got there he quickly rolled out of bed and lurched to the bathroom again. Ultimately, it was an unproductive effort. But at least retching would buy him a few minutes of pain-free existence before he'd need to figure out what he was going to do about it...if he _could_ do anything about it.

His headache was back, if it had ever left, and was getting worse by the minute. It wasn't being helped by the black void of ache that occupied the space between his ribs and his pelvis, and the absence of anything in his apartment that could heal or at least deaden it. Antacids did nothing…booze was out of the question…he had no pain meds, not that he could have taken them on an empty stomach anyway…

_Well, gotta start somewhere. I can't do anything about my head, but...maybe I can find something to eat, to help soak up the acid. Whatever's left in me now, anyway._

He wobbled down the hall to the kitchen, eyes closed, groping his way along. Halfway down, he stubbed his toe against something, and he cursed as he watched the empty bottle roll and clunk against the baseboard. It sounded like the BOOM of a cannon to his addled brain. With some difficulty, he crouched down, grasped the bottle, and made it to the counter in one piece. The bottle dropped into the trash can with a _thunk_. That hurt too.

Everything was exactly the same as it had been several hours before. The door looked just as it had earlier...not like he'd been expecting it to somehow fall open or something, but whatever. Trying to get it open again would have to wait until he felt better. Why the HELL did he get up in the first place, anyway?

…_oh yeah. Food._

His last box of cereal lay open on the counter, completely empty. So, nothing doing there. Several large cans of soup were stacked by the stove, though. He could eat that cold, if the smell didn't get to him first. Well, it was worth a try. He fumbled in a drawer for a can opener and clamped it to the rim of one of the cans. His hand shook as he turned the knob. Then it slipped, and the heavy metal can opener clattered loudly to the counter. Getting it back onto the rim of the can took a Herculean effort.

After an eternity, the lid came loose, and he pried it up. His tired eyes took a moment to register what was inside.

…_round white objects…_

They were cold and smooth to the touch. He lifted one from the can and held it in front of his face, not trusting his own eyes. The rounded white top read "60W".

…_the hell. It's a light bulb. This can is full of light bulbs. Who the hell ever heard of putting light bulbs in a can?_

He pushed the can aside and opened the next one, inch by inch.

_Let's hope that this one has actual soup in it. I don't know if I can get another of these open right now._

There was sloshing. As the cut along the rim lengthened, he could see the contents. Something liquid inside…that looked promising. He moved closer to sniff it to make sure it wouldn't turn his stomach again. The smell was familiar…but it sure as hell wasn't soup.

_Jesus!_

He dropped the can opener and backed away from the counter.

_Oh my God…it's full of blood. Old, rotten blood…_

He tripped over the trash can in the corner of the kitchen island, and fell backward, catching himself on the counter. He wanted to retch again, but he didn't have the energy to do anything else than sag against the counter and stare at the half-open can. It stared back from afar. After several seconds, he grabbed the dishtowel that hung from the cabinet handle under the sink. He wrapped it around his hand and arm, lifted the can slowly from the counter, carried it to the sink, and poured its contents down the drain, holding his other hand over his nose and mouth. When it was as empty as it could get, he rinsed it out thoroughly and threw it into the trash, then ran more water down the drain until every trace of the stuff was long gone.

He tossed the towel onto the counter and leaned against the kitchen island again. The other cans sat there silently, taunting him.

_**Not **going there. So much for that. What now?_

He forced himself to think. No food in the cabinets…not much in the fridge. Certainly, nothing he should be eating right now. So, nothing to eat in the apartment at all. Nothing he could remember just then, anyway. Maybe an odd bottle or two of chocolate milk...but he knew from past experience that it would just make him feel worse.

His shopping list caught his eye.

_Corn flakes  
Chocolate milk  
Soup  
Ibuprofen_

He scratched "Soup" off of the list, and added "Antacid" at the bottom. Then, he trudged over to the couch and lowered himself down to it slowly. The TV stared blankly at him, but he didn't think he could really take the noise right now. He couldn't handle much of anything at the moment. Quiet and rest were what was needed...lots of it. He'd make another attempt at food later.

Henry stretched out on the couch and laid his head on the old red pillow at the end. He watched the ceiling fan going round and round and let the dizziness carry him off.

* * *

The clock was ticking. 

He blinked, and raised his arm over his eyes to block the early-afternoon sun that glared off of the windows across the street.

_How long was I asleep? A few hours, must have been. _

_I'm still alive…I guess…_

His headache had lessened, and even the burning in his gut was at a tolerable level. He must still be hung over, though, for there was this weird smell in his nostrils, and it wasn't the stench of blood from earlier. Couldn't be. He'd washed it all down the drain.

He pushed himself up on one elbow, and looked around. Everything seemed normal, he thought. Windows…table…TV…hallway...kitchen…_wait_. There was something on the counter by the shopping list. That was the source of the odor. Come to think of it, it did kind of smell like food. That was it. It smelled… good. _Really_ good.

Henry got to his feet and made the short journey to the counter. Neatly laid out in the middle were a huge plate of rotini with marinara sauce, a green salad with oil-and-vinegar dressing, a lump of cheese with a grater, and a large bottle of water, along with a knife and fork and a thick white napkin.

_What the…_

The shopping list was gone. Instead, the notepad said:

_**Keep your strength up.**_  
**_And lay off the booze. It isn't good for you._**

A wry smile twisted his lips.

_Well, I'd figured that out already…thanks._

Henry stared at it all for several seconds. It seemed real enough. The colors swam before him, red and white and green. Then, he lowered his nose to the rotini and sniffed.

_Smells…mmm. Oh man. **Exactly** like the sauce from Fuseli's. My favorite. Where did this come from? Who put it here…how…_

He was full of questions, but a rumbling from below reminded him that other parts of him needed filling. The questions would have to wait. He shrugged, pulled out a chair, picked up the fork, and started on the rotini. It was piping hot and fresh, and it tasted just like he remembered. Everything did. It was exactly what he needed at that moment, and he wasn't going to worry about that particular gift horse just then. There would be plenty of time for that later. But for now, more cheese...

He wolfed all of it down in record time, and felt much better almost immediately. Then, he felt the familiar pasta-snooze coming on. The couch beckoned once again, and he gave in to its evil ways.

* * *

Someone was in the hallway outside of his door. Henry heard the voice clearly, and he was instantly wide awake. He jumped to his feet and hurried to the peephole. It was the guy from next door, the porn nut. There was a large package under his arm, and a cell phone at his ear. 

"No. No, you know I have most of these already…Oh, yes, you _know_. Or you should. I _told_ you I didn't need anything that's not on my list…"

Henry pounded on his door and screamed at the top of his lungs.

"HELP! HELP ME! I'M STUCK IN HERE! GET ME OUT!"

But the guy from 301 just kept walking down the hall, talking on his phone as if he hadn't heard a thing.

"Come _on_. Some of this...it's not even my kind of stuff, and you know it. You're just trying to unload the old junk that won't sell...Yeah, right. How stupid do you think I _am?_ You lying sack of..."

Henry slammed his shoulder into the door as hard as he could, but nothing happened.

"HELP!"

Keys jangled, and he heard the door to 301 open and close. Henry shot down his hallway and put his ear to the bedroom wall. He could hear movement next door.

"HEY! YOU! NEXT DOOR! I'M STUCK IN HERE! CALL THE SUPER!"

The movement continued uninterrupted. He slammed his fist into the wall.

_He's got to be able to hear me! I'm yelling loud enough to raise the dead! What is WRONG with him? Asshole probably doesn't care…_

"I'M SERIOUS! CALL THE DAMN SUPER ALREADY!"

The noises from next door continued, and eventually faded. He could hear the muffled sound of a TV somewhere in the distance.

_Great. Now I'm going to have to yell even louder!_

"**I'M NOT GOING TO STOP UNTIL YOU GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE!**"

...and nothing happened.

No matter how loudly he yelled or how creatively he cursed, nothing happened. Minutes passed, more than he could be bothered to count, and nothing happened. After a while, it was very clear that nothing was going to happen. Still, he kept pounding and yelling for all he was worth until his voice finally gave out.

"ASSHOLE!" he croaked one last time.

Henry turned from the wall and slid to the floor, and sat back against the chest of drawers by his desk. He raised his hands and stared at the swollen, throbbing red fingers that uncurled slowly and painfully.

_I can't believe it. It's as if he doesn't hear me. But how is that possible? The whole damn building should have heard me._

The phone was on his nightstand in front of him, just as it had been since he'd moved in. He crawled over to it and lifted it off of the hook, holding it gingerly in his bruised hand, and started dialing Frank Sunderland's number again. But this time, the usual beeping of the buttons was absent, and all he heard was dial tone.

_Great. The phone's broken. This is getting better and better. What else?_

He was hot and tired and sweaty by now. Time for a shower. Not like he had anything better to do. But, as it turned out, the shower was also kaput. Nothing came out of the tap or the old round shower head, no matter how many times he fiddled with the knobs. He was reduced to a spongebath with a couple of washcloths, and rinsing his hair in the sink. But at least he felt less scummy. So, cleaner and in slightly improved spirits, he wrapped himself in his robe and headed down the hall.

He wasn't as surprised as he expected to be when he found dinner laid out for him as before. This time, it was Fuseli's biggest Tuscan steak, medium rare, with grilled veggies with balsamic vinegar, and another bottle of water. Whoever was doing the catering knew just what he liked, it seemed, except for the absence of a good red wine. But that was just as well, given the state of his stomach lining right now. It was still sore, but he was having no trouble keeping food down. He'd be better by tomorrow, he knew.

As he ate, darkness fell over Ashfield, and the time that he was dreading came nearer and nearer. There was no avoiding it. He couldn't stay up and watch TV, he was too distracted to read, work was out of the question, and he sure as hell couldn't go out anywhere. Plus, he was still worn out from all the yelling and banging into walls from earlier. Sooner or later, he was going to have to go to bed. But he could put off the inevitable for a little while longer.

Right now, a little fresh evening air wouldn't hurt. Maybe it would clear his head.

_Not likely. But, it's worth a try, and what else have I got to do?_

So, he grabbed the old wooden chair by the TV and put it in front of the window by the bookshelf, facing into the room. He flipped the latch on the window and tugged upward, but it wouldn't open. No amount of pulling would budge it.

…_of course it won't. Since the door won't open, either._

Henry sat down backwards on the chair, one leg on each side, crossed his forearms across its back, and looked out into the evening. Things were starting to make a weird kind of sense now. Perhaps it was the combination of the bad nights and the strange day he'd had, and the huge meal swimming around in his stomach, but his mind was starting to put together pieces where he hadn't even been sure there was a puzzle. He rested his chin on his arms.

_The door won't open. The windows won't open. The phone is dead, as is the TV. And today there's food for me when I need it, just out of the blue. Way too much going on to be coincidence. There's something behind this. Or…somebody. Somebody's locked me in here and cut me off from the outside. Maybe, whoever it is is giving me these nightmares, too._

_Who? If I just knew who…_

_What would you do, Henry? It wouldn't help._

_Yeah, but I'd feel better about things…maybe._

He turned back to the kitchen, and wasn't surprised to see that the dishes from his dinner had vanished. Come to think of it, they'd disappeared after lunch too.

_I don't know if I can even trust my own eyes anymore. It's as if dinner never happened. But I can feel it, in my stomach, so I know that it did…_

At the moment, though, whatever was going on, it didn't seem to be dangerous to him at all. He was safe, in his room. He couldn't leave, but then again, nothing could come in either, and it seemed that he was going to be fed for however long he was stuck there. So he had what he needed to stay alive. For now. He was OK. Sure would be nice if whoever was running this would fix the shower, though.

He shifted back around and leaned toward the window. The sky was dark and cloudy, and the neon lights from across the street illuminated the buildings in red and orange. White and red lights appeared and disappeared as cars passed by, and the traffic lights blinked red then green then yellow. Then, there were the lit windows of Fuseli's and the Southfield just upstairs, too. The city was filled with little lights everywhere, holding the darkness at bay. Across the courtyard, the other wing of the building was lit by the glow from the apartment windows as the kids in 206 bounced on their bunks and the guy in 107 bopped around his living room. Same as every other day. He'd always found comfort in that. No matter what, he could look out of his window and see exactly the same thing that he'd seen the day before, and that he'd see the next day, and the day after that. Nothing ever really changed around South Ashfield Heights…

Then suddenly, his calm was gone, the chair was on the floor, and he was on his feet at the window, pounding against it with everything he had left. The glass should have shattered, but it seemed to bounce back under his fists. He screamed his frustration at the people in the windows far below.

_GOD DAMN THEM ALL! Nobody has done a damn thing. They probably don't even know that I'm stuck in here. Don't even notice that I haven't been around for days. Self-centered sons of bitches. All they care about is themselves, in their little rooms, living their little lives, not blinking twice when the guy a floor up from them is imprisoned in his own damn APARTMENT by some unknown thing and can't even make a goddamn phone call. Not even Braintree, that nosy asshole. You know that he knows exactly when everyone gets up, goes out, comes back, and goes to bed, but even he hasn't gotten off of his ass to see why the guy in 302 hasn't been around._

_Doesn't give a damn. None of them care at all. Not even…_

_Wait!_

It was late, and a weeknight. She was probably home. If her apartment was laid out like his (and they all seemed to be roughly the same, as far as he could tell), then her bedroom would be on the other side of the wall, and she would _have_ to be able to hear him.

_Maybe..._

Henry wedged himself between the cabinet against the wall by the kitchen and the end of his couch, and put his ear to the wall.

_Yes. She's there! I can hear her moving around. I've got to try._

Henry cupped his hands around his mouth and put his face against the wall.

"EILEEN! HELP! IT'S HENRY!"

No sound.

"I'M STUCK IN HERE! CALL SOMEBODY! ANYBODY!"

His voice was still rough from earlier, but he had a few good minutes left in him.

"EILEEN! IT'S HENRY! I'M NOT KIDDING! HELP ME!"

He slammed his sore fists into the wall, hard enough to break through drywall or at least make a ding in sheetrock.

...nothing.

"EILEEN!"

When those few minutes were up, he laid his ear against the unbroken wall. She was still doing whatever in there…watching TV, putting things away, making the bed, whatever. There was no indication that she'd even heard him.

_Why can't she hear me? That's gotta be it. She can't hear me. I don't think she'd ignore me. She seems nice whenever I run into her in the hall or at the mailboxes…if she thought something was wrong, she'd call for help or at least yell back. Even if she doesn't give a damn, at least she wouldn't want to be kept awake by the noise I'm making._

That was it, then. It wasn't that people were ignoring him…it was that they couldn't hear or see him. That explained Richard's absence, too. Wouldn't it make sense that if Mike in 301 and Eileen in 303 didn't hear him hammering and yelling for all he was worth, then Richard in 207 wouldn't be able to see anything through his windows? At least, if somebody was trying to keep him isolated, that would be the sensible thing to do, right? Cut him off completely? But _how_?

Now, things had gone from the surreal straight to the world of science fiction, and he was completely at a loss. He was exhausted from the long and difficult day, his hands were starting to hurt again, his head hadn't _stopped_ hurting, and there was nothing left to do but to slide to the floor and lean against the wall. At least he was too tired to panic or worry.

_Yeah, that was crappy stuff to think about my neighbors. They're mostly good people, as far as I can tell. Never had a problem with any of them. I just wish that…heh, that they'd do for me what I'm not sure I'd do for them. Hypocrite. No, I think I might. Maybe. I don't know. But then again, they're used to not seeing me for days on end, I guess, so they probably haven't even thought about it. Can't really blame them there. That part is my own fault._

He tilted his head back and rested there, motionless.

_I wish I could throw something or break something, but somehow I know that it wouldn't do any good. In any way. Nothing would break or even crack, and I'd just end up feeling worse. Whoever's running this has thought of everything else, so that wouldn't have been overlooked. No way._

_What I don't get is...damn, I don't get **any **of it. This is way, way out of my control. So unlike that feeling from last night's nightmare. Ugh...not **that **part. Most of it was beyond anything I could ever imagine. _

He didn't want to think about that just now...or ever. But there was nothing left to think about, and he was too tired to stop himself. The hallways and rooms and monsters and that blond man...what was his name? He turned the images over and over in his mind, but the images were only part of the memory.

_Be honest with yourself, Henry. That feeling...that felt good. There, it was all me. I ruled my own little world. That was great. No, better than great. It was like…well, like being drunk. I was invincible. I could have busted out of this place in a second. Nothing was impossible. I wish…_

_**What? What do you wish, Henry?**_

He wasn't sure if that was him or somebody else talking. Suddenly, he was very afraid.

_Nothing. Nothing. Forget it._

Afraid of what, he wasn't sure. It wasn't as if there was anything in the room that was directly threatening him…it was more like a feeling of foreboding, or a feeling of being watched.

_And you're afraid of that feeling, too. That power, that invincibility. You loved it. You'd love to **feel it again, wouldn't you?** **You'd give anything to be able to control things like that. Make people bow to your will like little ants, not giving a damn about THEIR feelings or other bullshit, just using them like they would use you given half a chance. Wouldn't you love that?**_

Henry shook his head in disbelief.

…_what the hell was THAT? Who **are** you?_

There was no reply.

_WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?_

Silence, deep as the blackness in the corners. He was alone now. Whatever or whoever it was, was gone. If it had ever been there in the first place. That frightened him more than anything.

_Great. If I go to sleep, I have nightmares about sadistic, all-powerful beings and wanting to be one. And if I stay awake, then something gets in my head and scares me even worse._

He struggled to his feet, and felt the fatigue in every fiber of his being. It was inevitable now. He headed down the hallway.

_Face it, Henry, you're going to have to sleep sometime._

He pulled his usual T-shirt and shorts from the chest of drawers, dropped his bathrobe onto the back of the chair, and sat down on the bed. The alarm clock still read 3:30 AM.

_Screw that._

He yanked the clock's plug from the wall, took it into the kitchen, and dropped it in the trash on top of the empty soup can. His watch would do for now until he replaced the clock.

The T-shirt and shorts suddenly seemed very flimsy. He frowned, and pulled his favorite jeans from the drawer, along with a white T-shirt and his favorite button-down. Getting dressed felt like a ritual, buttoning up his shirt like putting on armor.

_At least I'll be dressed if anything happens._

_What's going to happen?_

…_Don't know, but at least I'll be dressed._

_That doesn't make any sense._

_Whatever. Don't care._

He sat upright on top of the blanket, leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and let himself drift off to whatever awaited him.


	7. Night 4 Part 1

He was asleep again. It was strange, that he could be so sure of that while it was actually happening. It wasn't supposed to work that way, right?

_And here comes the same old nightmare..._

Deep in sleep, he watched as the ghost emerged from the wall again accompanied by the usual black goo and eerie groans. He backed up the same few steps, and was knocked to the floor as usual…

…_and here he comes, crawling over me…there's the weakness…the blinding red headache..._

And everything went black as before. Same old same old.

_**Getting kind of blasé, eh, Henry?**_

_Who was that?_ He was surprised by his own presence of mind in the middle of sleep to ask that question. But no answer came, so he waited for the dream to play out. Everything was going as usual, so...at least he knew what was coming.

_...and we're done. This is where I wake up._

But he didn't wake up.

_...as I was saying, this is where I wake up._

He _couldn't_ wake up. He was in his room, sitting on his bed, and try as he might, he couldn't move a muscle.

_...wake up, Henry. Come on._

His eyelids were firmly closed, but he could see everything around him clearly, hear the cars going by in the street…

_Wake. The. Hell. Up._

He tried to lift his hands, to pound them into his thighs to force himself awake, but nothing doing. He was trapped in his own body…for once.

_**No, Henry. **_

_...oh shit._

_**Looks like I'm going to have to take you further this time.**_

_No! WAKE! UP! Goddammit…_

Instead, he felt himself slipping away again.

* * *

It was dark, completely dark.

_I…am._

_God, no,_ his brain cried. _Not again._

No, this was different. Definitely different.

As his head turned, he felt no huge metal helmet, nothing. Wait…that was wrong. There was something there. His head was completely wrapped in something heavy…not fabric, maybe leather or…skin? That was why it was so dark…he couldn't see. He tried to touch whatever it was that was covering his head, to feel it and find out what it was, but his hands wouldn't obey. They remained fastened on the wheel in front of him, gripping it tightly of their own volition. He tried again, to move his arm or leg or _anything_, but he couldn't. It was as if his body was on autopilot.

_I…I can't control my own movements. What the hell is going on here? Am I just along for the ride? Again?_

But the thick, heavy cotton draping his body and legs felt the same, and he felt bigger than usual, as he had before. His arms and legs felt powerful. So that was familiar...as was the stench of old, rotten blood. Similar, but different.

_If I'm not that thing with the helmet…who am I? Am I alone?_

He closed his eyes and tried to reach out to the Other…and felt nothing. There was nobody there.

_So I am alone_.

That hurt in ways he hadn't felt in years.

A sound echoed from somewhere above. It sounded as though he was in some long corridor or deep well. All around him was cold white tile, stained with blood. He saw the walls around him as clearly as if with his own eyes...but the image was deep in his mind. He shouldn't be able to see anything at all, but there it was. Good enough. His hands turned the wheel, which squeaked and protested. One turn…two…three…

A bigger noise came down the long shaft, from above again. It echoed and rumbled down as something large and metallic approached rapidly. For a moment, Henry feared that whatever it was would run him down, but then he realized that the sounds were bouncing around in a small space just around him, and that he was in a small side chamber off of the main shaft. So he was out of harm's way for now. He steadied himself against the rumbling and waited.

It was a metal cage, like in one of those old-style elevators, but rusty and bloody. As it approached, he sensed that it was unoccupied. There was no life coming from it. It stopped just across from him, blocking the alcove he occupied, and its doors slowly creaked open.

There was someone there now...someone alive. It was a girl, a teenage girl, only a few feet away from him. He saw every detail of her short blonde hair, her white satiny vest and boots, and her freckles…and the panic on her face as she flattened herself against the side of the elevator, looking around wildly.

Suddenly, she saw him. She seemed even more terrified, and she gasped and drew back further. He leered at her as the thrill of her fear rushed through his veins and the memories of his purpose became more clear. Now he remembered who he was and why he and she were here and what he had to do and the _wonderful_ thing that would happen, soon, so very soon.

It was finally..._time._

"Is this a dream?" she said. "It's got to be!"

_Not a dream, not for you. Your nightmare, but our dream come true. I've waited so long for this…we all have. Just a little longer. _

The doors slammed shut, and the elevator began to descend down the shaft. He heard her talking to herself as she zoomed away from him.

* * *

He could travel in a flash. From anywhere, to anywhere. All he had to do was imagine himself in a place, and there he was. But he preferred to crawl through the miles of tunnels that snaked their way through the back walls and underground caverns of his world. He liked the cool, dark metal pipes and ventilation shafts. He was cozy and safe there, and there was nothing to distract him from what he could see happening with his mind. At that moment, he was descending vertically, like a spider, which was a favorite thing to do. He reached the bottom of one shaft, and moved smoothly along the next horizontal until he came to the junction of six large tunnels, which ran off from either side of the huge room. In the middle slept the reason for his visit.

_Time to wake up, my friend._

The thing stirred, and then was still.

_It's time for you to do your duty. You remember._

No response.

_I have a special treat for you. Guess what? _

Something massive moved. Against the faint light that crept in through the tunnels, he could see it shift and stretch. He sensed its anticipation, and smiled to himself. It had always liked surprises.

_Someone's coming to see you. _

It stopped moving, listening intently. He couldn't hear anything yet, but evidently it did.

_You're going to have so much fun._

There it was. He could hear the _clink, clink clink_ of someone coming down the long ladder from the floors above them. The thing's head lifted up. Then, a crash echoed down the tunnels, and he could see the splintered rungs of the ladder lying on the cold ground.

_Go to her, but do not kill her. Not just yet._

The enormous worm shook its huge head and vanished up one of the tubes. He was left alone in the dark, damp room. After a minute or so, he heard a roar from above.

_Before, I was the monster. Now, I'm the one who controls **them**. Makes them do my bidding. And my bidding is to do what it takes to ensure Her rebirth. I answer only to Her. Nobody else._

_I like this. A lot._

* * *

He was suspended at the top of another long, deep passage. Another elevator shaft, probably. There were wheels and gears within his reach, and nothing for several floors below him. It was cool and dark and quiet, just as he liked it. The only sound was his own heartbeat echoing down the shaft.

Then, there was another noise…something metallic. Someone was forcing the elevator doors open a floor or two down. Slowly. He heard the metal of the doors screech, and then a squeaking sound that was familiar, but that he couldn't identify. The sliver of light below him widened. A car jack was wedged in the space between the doors, and someone was slowly winching them open. The squeaking noise stopped, and after a few moments a long white rope snaked down from the space to the open doors on the floor below.

He saw her again. She was far below him, down in the shaft, climbing down the rope as best she could in her boots and short skirt. He watched her slowly lower herself, foot by foot, until she was even with the lower set of doors, and he watched as she carefully pulled herself through the doors to the floor below. He turned back to his wheels, and was about to start turning when he heard a sound below.

She was looking up into the shaft, directly at him.

"Hello?"

The silence was thick and velvety.

"Is there someone there?"

The fear in her voice was sugar on his tongue. He held perfectly still and after a few seconds she shook her head and disappeared. But he could still see her as she walked down the hallway and through the door to the remodeling shop. She moved cautiously, carefully, through the sinks and toilets and bathroom fixtures, and finally to a solitary bathtub in the middle of a room.

His hand gripped the valve wheel above him.

Her little hand grasped the tub knob and turned…

And the wheel in his hands squeaked in rusty protest as it turned.

There was a horrible pause, then blood started to well up from the tub drain. She recoiled and collapsed to the floor, screaming, and he heard Her call to him.

_You are not alone…_

A deep peace flooded his veins.

_I am yours to command,_ he said.

_As always._

* * *

He rested for a while, feeling Her presence. It had been so, so long that he'd been alone, and now it was just a matter of time until his purpose was accomplished.

_She's there. She's growing stronger. Just a little longer…so near now…_

He allowed himself to be lost in visions of the future for a little while. Then he remembered. He had somewhere he needed to be.

He concentrated, and in a moment he was there, on the roof under the stars, with the man who had been trained since he was young to do exactly what he was about to do now. It had been a long time since he'd seen him, or the woman who stood next to him...had he ever actually met them? Or had he only known of them from afar? The arrangement of such things was delegated to others, and he had little involvement with the day-to-day workings of Her clergy. He preferred to work alone. No matter. They were here now, and they knew their purpose.

The man stood there, fragile, empty-handed, by the side of the priestess. Had he really been that small, that vulnerable once? Both had ghostly white hair, that seemed to glow like the moon in the darkness of the night. They looked like brother and sister, but he knew that they were not related except in Her.

At his appearance, they both knelt in front of him.

_Ah. Yes, I like this indeed._

He turned to the woman.

_You know what you must do, and what he must do. This is the most important step. Under no circumstances must you fail. But remember, whatever happens, she **must** be kept safe._

The priestess bowed her head. They stood, and he nodded toward the man. It was time.

As he watched, the man's shape began to change and stretch. His clothes tore from his body and fell away, and his mouth opened in a silent cry moments before it was covered in the coarse, soft rags that swirled through the air and swathed his lengthening limbs. It was a matter of only a few seconds before he was entirely wrapped in blood and rust. His face was now obscured by a huge turban that towered above his head, and long blades appeared in his gloved hands. They were nearly of the same height now, and he smiled to himself when he saw the man's muscles bunch and flex as he got used to his new body.

_You are one of us now. Go earn your keep._

With a final nod, the man who was now no longer a man turned and headed down the fire escape. His heavy footsteps echoed down the metal steps, and faded away. It was just the two of them there now, him and the priestess. They stood side by side in the blackness. He could feel her eyes upon him, and he marveled at how the stars themselves could be blotted out so completely...there should be a moon, tonight, but there was none...he had made sure of that.

Then, without a sound, it was done.

He nodded at her, and wished himself away. She could handle the rest for now.

* * *

There were no valves here. Nothing for him to do. So he waited as the walls around him thrummed with blood and life. As he hung there, suspended upside down, he listened to the pulse of the room, of the whole _building_ slow bit by bit to match his. After a while, they pulsed in the same rhythm, as if parts of the same being.

He saw her again, running along a darkened street. In the dark he could just make out a slight smile on her face. She turned up a side alley and ran up a short flight of stairs to a door on a building. There was a brass plaque by the door.

_Daisy Villa Apartments_

His pulse quickened in anticipation. She let herself in to one of the doors in the hall and tossed her keys on the table just inside.

"Dad, I'm home," he heard her say. "Listen…something really crazy is going on. I think we should…"

Her breath caught in her throat, and so did his.

"Dad?"

He could see what she could not.

_Look at him…the blood…oh, it's glorious...he looks so peaceful but for the blood…_

Yet there was a faint smile on the dead face. Had he gone so willingly? Not feared his own death? He could understand that. He had done the same once, for Her. Anything for Her, _anything._ But...an unbeliever? _The_ Unbeliever? How could he? He couldn't understand sacrifice, not like they did. He never had. If he _had_ understood, years ago, none of this would have been necessary.

The girl's hands reached out, trembling, and…

There it was. _She_ was growing. He could feel it. He felt the impact as her knees hit the floor, he felt the shock rip through her, he felt the agony and pain and the ANGER flow through her veins and through his.

_Ah…_

It was heady, too. Like the power, but a more visceral thrill, the satisfaction that came with things setting themselves right.

Her voice rang in his ears.

_Not much longer now._

But the smile on the Unbeliever's face stayed with him for a long time after that.


	8. Night 4 Part 2

More valves. Turning valves was a simple pleasure for him. The wheels felt good in his hands, the motion was comfortable and soothing, and it was stress relief in his book. It made things happen, moved things along. He loved that sense of accomplishment. It was just as well, he mused, as he was very busy just now, and so finding satisfaction in his work was a happy and useful circumstance.

Would he miss this afterward? He had no idea.

He heard the door far below open, then close. Then _clink, clink, clink_ up the ladder. She passed by him, eyeing him warily as she climbed. By now, she knew what his turning signified, and he saw her mouth harden as she continued upward past him.

The _thing_ suspended near him writhed in her bonds in mindless agony. As the girl passed through the door he pulled the enormous pink body free of her chains and began to haul her up to the top floor. He had to get her to that special room of hers. It was part of the plan. Her body thumped roughly against the wall as he hauled her up the last few feet. Not like she was going to care…she was just a brainless, twitching mass of flesh now. His tool. His toy, if he wanted, but that wasn't important right now.

It was a pleasant surprise and an added bonus to feel eyes upon him as he crawled up into the narrow, tiled hallway and dragged his burden limply behind him. Every little bit helped, after all.

* * *

Every time he entered the sacred place, he felt it in his bones. He didn't need to see it with his mind's eye to know that he was there. Even the air tasted different there. The whole place was warm and inviting. Now he was back there, crawling happily through the tunnels as he had done so many times before…watching, monitoring her every move. Now, he was crawling through the room of fire on his way to the Womb. He could have crawled for days. But, no time for that…he had a job to do, and they were _so close_ that he could taste that, too. There would be enough time for that later. 

_I'll take some time for myself when we're done. That's it. I'll take a vacation. It's been a long time. I think I've earned a break. A few days should be enough. But I won't go anywhere…I'll stay right here. My tunnels are all I need._

Still, he could take a short break every now and then. Such as now. He was in a passage low in a small hallway, and he lay on the floor and watched greedily as the enormous stinking white beast that took up the entire width of the hall swung heavily at the girl. He knew that she wouldn't die, not now. She'd gotten too far to be stopped by a single fleshy monster like this. _Two_, though, would be a challenge…and out of the corner of his eye, he watched her slowly backing into the embrace of one of his low-crawling brethren.

_Fascinating...the shapes that they take in her eyes. I would never have predicted that she would see them in this way. _

It didn't actually matter if she died, of course…a little extra effort from him and she'd be right back on track. Remarkable, wasn't it, that he could have power over life and death and still be the second in command. So many people wanted to be the one in charge, the one who ran things, but he never had. He was happy just where he was, serving Her. It struck him more as proof of how glorious Her new world would be, that control of life and death was an insignificant enough thing to be delegated to him.

_A new world. Paradise, in which sin and temptation and pain and misery will be burned away and everyone will start with a clean slate. Life and death will no longer be so central to people. They will understand, and no longer will sacrifices like mine be necessary. Never again._

He let himself be lost in visions of the future again as he watched the two close in on her. After a few seconds, she turned tail and fled through the door into the next room. That was her salvation…and her undoing. The tall children of God in the room of visions made quick work of her, and soon she lay motionless on the floor, in a rapidly spreading pool of red.

For once, the sight of blood left him cold. So, he transported himself over to her side, took hold of her feet, and dragged her into the next room. She was pale, more pale than he'd seen her, but then again most of her blood had been left behind her, spread in thick streaks across the floor of the room where she'd died.

_Death is just the beginning. But it's not yet her time. This will only take a moment._

He reached into his robe and extracted three small coins. He couldn't remember the last time they had been used…years before, he knew, but not for this purpose. Only three existed, relics of a time long past, to be saved for the most vital uses only. They were too sacred to be used for this for anyone but the limp girl on the floor in front of him. He rubbed the dirt and dust from their faces.

_Silver on the left eye. Copper on the right eye. And gold on the abdomen. There it is. _

And for the first time, Henry's consciousness broke through just long enough to sense that this was _important_, very important, and that he needed to remember this afterward. After a moment, it was gone…

_...where was I?_

His hands moved over the body as he recited the words of power.

_This is the left eye of the Mother of God, to see the old world dead and gone.  
This is the right eye of the Mother of God, to see the new world arisen and eternal.  
This is the womb of the Mother of God, from which all comes and to which all must return and from which She will be freed on this glorious day.  
Arise, Mother of God. _

Heather coughed and sputtered and twitched. He stepped backward and smiled to himself as she scrambled to her feet. The coins clattered to the floor. She jumped at the noise and squinted into the darkness, searching, then put her hand to her head.

"What happened?" she said to herself. "There was…I was in the hallway, getting the hell away from that white smelly thing and the thing on the floor…and then those enormous monsters…and then…oh my God…"

_Exactly._

She turned, and saw him. Her hand went to her gun as she backed away, but he just stood there facing her, and the hand stayed where it was. When she was several feet away, she narrowed her eyes and peered at him, then at the three bright metallic gleams on the dark floor, then back at him.

"I remember now. You…you must have…you _did._ Didn't you?"

He nodded to her.

"Thank you…I guess."

Then she was gone. He bent to pick up the coins, put them back in his pocket, and passed back through the door into the room of visions.

This was his favorite room in the entire church. He preferred his warm, dark tunnels, but when he had to be in a larger space, or when he had some thinking to do, this was where he wanted to be. The paintings high up on the walls drew him in and made him feel special…not only because the uninitiated could barely see them, let alone understand them, but because he was a vital part of the story told through their images. It was the story of God. As he rested now in the middle of the bloody floor and walls that writhed with little black worms, he looked up at the familiar figures and thrilled at the thought that he was part of it all.

_Thank you for this._

He could have spent hours there. But time was passing, and he had to remind Heather of something. The wheel with the two bodies lay some distance away. He thought briefly of teleporting himself there, but then realized that he wanted to be back in his beloved passages as much as possible before It happened. He would need the strength.

He hauled himself to his feet and headed toward the nearest opening to begin the long crawl to the wheel.

* * *

The fire in the pit reminded him of the purification so long ago. The one in which he'd lost his eyes, been burned so horribly…the pain had been excruciating. He'd felt his own skin crackling as it charred and fell away in front of him. Even after he couldn't see his flesh burning any more, after his nerves had been destroyed and he felt no more pain, he could still smell it. He'd thought that that was it, that he was going to die. 

Then, as he lay there, beyond agony, the priestess had recited the legend of the first coming of God. It had taken everything he had left to concentrate on it, to listen to her voice through the red haze, but once he managed to do so he couldn't stop. The story was as familiar to him as his own, but he thrilled to it as always. It reminded him that the first Mother of God had undergone the same thing. Her ordeal had been worse, though, and she'd nearly died. Only Her own power, and the power of Her followers, had kept the Mother alive. Yet, he was that much closer to Her now because of his purification. That made things somewhat better. And after his wounds had healed as much as they ever would, when he was officially chosen by Her followers to be Her special servant, it was just a formality, for She had already placed her mark on him forever.

Still, that had been the greatest day of his life. One he would never forget. As the priestess spoke the words and performed the ritual to invest him with the powers he would need in his new role, he felt new life flow through him, and thrilled to the sensation. His deformed hands with their fused fingers spread wide for the blood that flowed over them, rich as wine. Even the slight but prolonged stinging of the inky tattooing needle that placed the sacred signs on his shoulders was welcome for what it meant to him.

When it was all done, he was left alone in the room, the room of visions, to receive the Mother's blessing. For a long time, he sat alone, as his flesh itched and stung and his blood dripped down and was absorbed by the old tiles, but his faith never wavered. He sat still for what seemed like hours, as the figures on the walls danced and twined around each other. After a while, the flow of blood stopped, and he felt nothing but a numbness...and a terrible, terrible loneliness. Being the chosen one was such an honor, but...it hadn't really hit him until then, that he was truly alone in his elevation.

Then he heard Her voice echo through the room. It was the voice of a young girl, of course, but it carried no less weight for that. Though he knew that She was gone, yet Her voice remained...as did Her will.

_Are you ready?_

_Ready for what?_ he asked.

_You should be well aware of that by now. You have received all of the necessary teachings. You understand your role._

_Yes, but…I…_

_What is it?_

_...I don't know what to expect. What it will be like._

So She showed him. For an unknown amount of time, visions flowed through his mind's eye, visions of things magnificent and wonderful and near-unbelievable but for his complete faith in the rightness of it all. He saw it all. Everything! And he was a vital part of the plan. Without him, none of it would be possible. _This_ was the reason that he'd given up everything…his skin, his fingers, his eyesight, his name, his life…_this_ was it. And it was beyond his wildest dreams.

_This is the picture. Do you like what you see?_

_I…I am honored._

_Then be sure that you do well. You have no room for error. _

Fear crept into his mind. _Am I the only one?_

_No._

He was very surprised at that.

_No, you are not. There is another. But his work is far, far into the future, years from now, and he was not handled as he should have been. He is likely to fail at his task. He must be considered irrelevant. You must work alone._

He bent his head in submission, and She was gone. Once again he was alone...but not alone, not really. Never alone. Never again.

* * *

Now it was many years later, and the moment was at hand. The one he'd waited for all these long years. Watching, waiting, planning, preparing... 

But for a second that seemed like an eternity, it seemed that it might all go to waste. He watched in horror as the Mother lifted a tiny silver pendant from within her vest. Inside was a glistening red bead, round and shining like a ruby. The world went into slow motion as she tipped the bead into her mouth and swallowed.

Then, time started again, and she was coughing and heaving and

_OH MY GOD **NO**!_

He wanted to close his eyes, to look away, but that wasn't possible for him, not any more. The unthinkable was happening, right here in front of him, right now. Was all of this work…all of this for nothing? Nothing at all?

Of course not. The new priestess, the one who had met him on the roof, picked up the tiny little object and did the only possible thing she could do.

_She gives herself to bring Paradise. I knew that she could be counted on. Such a pity to lose such a devoted priestess, though. May her sacrifice be the last for us._

He watched grimly as her skin began to crawl with the red and black streaks and her body contorted in agony. Then, with a _whoosh_, she was gone. Down, into the Womb.

_The time...is at hand._

He knew it, and apparently so did the Mother. No, she was no longer the Mother. She had rejected her destiny. She was useless now, dead weight. Irrelevant. Stupid girl.

_Go home, Heather. Go home and await the new dawn._

But he knew that she wouldn't. That wasn't who she was, and it never had been. Like father, like daughter, even though there was no blood between them.

Heather hesitated for a moment, then squared her thin little shoulders and jumped down the hole.

* * *

_This is it. _He sensed Her presence even before he saw Her. His heart leapt in joy. 

_Yes, it is. I am here, my son. You have done well. _

_Will you…_

_I will be fine. Granted, that wasn't what I had wished, but it will do for now. I knew that I could rely on her to do what needed to be done._

_I only wish I could have done it myself._

_Not possible, of course. But yes, I know. Your devotion had never wavered._

She was beautiful to him. He hadn't expected…well, he hadn't really known what to expect. In all of his planning and dreaming and visions, he hadn't ever actually _seen_ Her. As he gently lifted the caul from Her face, She turned and smiled at him.

_Thank you._

His heart swelled, and for the first time since the fire, he felt like crying from pure joy. She was here, really _here,_ and Paradise was at hand. It had been so long…

Then, there was a small noise from the other side of the room. Damn it, that useless girl was down here too.

_She's no use to us any more. Would you like me to…_

_No. I will take care of her myself._

He bowed his head and retreated.

What followed took him through a range of emotions. At first, he watched the girl run back and forth, avoiding Her blows and lines of fire, firing her little pistol when she could, and he admitted a grudging respect for her. She'd gotten this far, although not without his help…she was a force to be reckoned with. Then, as things wore on, the fascination changed into an unsettled feeling that grew and grew until the unthinkable suddenly became a real possibility.

He saw Her sag and fall for the hundredth time.

_Please, lady, let me! _

_NO! I can do this! Leave it to me!_

Despite his better judgment, he obeyed Her as he had been brought up to do all of his life. As he would always do. No matter what…

He felt Her faltering. He could feel every blow, every bullet, as if it were hitting him instead. He wished that were the case. He would die for Her, She knew what…why wouldn't She let him do that?

_She is the one keeping me alive. If She…_

No. He wasn't going to let himself think about that. Anyway, it didn't matter what happened to him. He was unimportant.

He watched in horror as She screamed one final time. With his last strength, he realized that it was over. It was done. There was nothing he could do about it. He didn't have the energy to kill the little gnat that was bringing about the end of the world.

The last thing he heard was Her voice in his ear, beautiful as always.

_Thank you…_

She slumped far below him, and the world went white. He was falling…falling…

* * *

_**WHUMP**!_

_DAMMIT!_

Some industrial taste in his mouth…harsh and nubbly. Fibrous, too. Berber carpet. That could only mean that…

…_I just fell. Fell onto the floor. Out of bed._

Henry opened his eyes and tried to focus on the lumpy gray wool pressing against his cheek. He blinked, and gradually the outlines of his nightstand and bedframe resolved themselves. He found himself staring at the spare blanket that he kept neatly folded under his bed for the winter. Then, he was scrabbling back up and back under the covers. Sweating, and wide awake, heart pounding. Feeling up and down his own arms to make sure that they were really his and not that thing's…feeling relief mingled with disappointment.

There was no question about it. He had been further in than ever before. This time, he hadn't been able to think his own thoughts for most of the time. He wasn't just in that creature's body…he _was_ the creature in mind and spirit. Every moment, every thrill that thing had felt, every smell and touch…it was his, not Henry's.

_Just along for the ride. Who put me there? Why is he doing this? What's the point? What is this supposed to accomplish apart from making me feel like death warmed over after multiple nights of nightmares and broken sleep?_

The room was perfectly silent. It took him a minute to realize what was missing. His watch had stopped ticking. Of course. He now had no way of knowing the time at all.

_It feels like he's trying to tell me something, or make me feel something…if I could only figure out what that was…_

_Tell me, you bastard! Tell me! _

But there was no answer. Just Henry on his bed in the middle of the night.


	9. Day 4

Henry found that he was waking up more slowly every day. Perhaps it was the lack of truly restful sleep that was slowing him down. Perhaps it was the realization that every time he woke up, it was to a jammed door and a dead TV, and a day empty of everything that mattered. Perhaps it was something else. He didn't really know. But each day, it took him longer and longer to focus his eyes and collect himself and move from unconsciousness into alertness. This was very annoying, given what was going on around him.

Or, perhaps, it was the damn HEADACHE that was hammering against his skull 24/7…

No, it was more than that. He'd woken up in the same position in which he'd gone to sleep the night before, with that odd fatigue that normally comes from over-sleeping and his head pulsing and the blood rushing past his ears…and the certainty that someone or something was behind all of this. Overnight, the idea had hardened into a firm conviction. There was no other explanation. All of the strange things that had been going on were too obviously targeted toward keeping him isolated to be just chance happenings. Maybe that was an overly self-centered perspective, but he didn't really feel like worrying about that now. It didn't change the logical conclusion. There was definitely someone pulling the strings.

Funny thing was, this morning, it didn't bother him a bit. Perhaps he was too tired to care one way or the other. Or perhaps it was because he'd always figured that there was no point in worrying about things you couldn't control...and since he obviously wasn't in control here, stressing about it was useless. His anger was spent. _He_ was spent. And it was a lot easier to think in flat abstractions when you just didn't have it in you to worry any more.

The day stretched emptily before him. The door was still stuck, of course, as were the windows. The TV and phone were dead, and even the VCR refused to power on. Testing them had become routine by now, although every time it seemed more futile. At least the shower had decided to cooperate today. He decided that he didn't care if he used up half of the building's hot water, he was going to take a long, hot, steamy, luxurious shower. Perhaps it would help clear his head.

Half an hour later, it hadn't. Still, he was warm and clean, and that counted for something. So, his spirits slightly lifted, he scrounged around in his kitchen cabinets for anything that looked remotely edible. Two ancient packets of soup crackers and his next-to-last bottle of chocolate milk were hardly adequate, but they would have to do.

By eleven o'clock, he'd exhausted all available activities. There was nothing to do but wait for lunch. Plenty of time to try to get his head in order.

Henry pushed the coffee table against the TV stand. Then, he pulled his old red pillow from the couch and laid it on the floor. He sat down on it and crossed his legs, placed his hands in his lap and closed his eyes. He tried to push all thoughts of fear and worry and confusion from his mind…a far from simple thing to do in his current state, but ultimately he succeeded. He always did.

After a while, his breath slowed, and he was more relaxed than he'd been in weeks. It had been a long time since he'd taken the time for this, too long perhaps...

* * *

He'd started more than twenty years ago. How could he ever forget? 

It was a clear, warm day in late summer, and Mom had taken him on vacation to Silent Hill. This was the second time they'd visited, but only the first time he could remember going. There had been an earlier time, she said, but he didn't remember that. He was too young to remember much, or to have much to remember.

It was the first time that she'd taken him to the amusement park, since he had been too little to go on the rides before. The lights and sounds were unlike anything he remembered, so different from his quiet home. It had been fun at first. He'd had a big wad of cotton candy and a soda, and Mom had shown him how to play some of the booth games, and he'd even won a tiny stuffed animal at one of the booths (with her help). He'd earned a hug from her for that, and he'd felt as proud as he'd ever been. Then, he had an idea.

"Mom?"

"Yes, Henry?"

He held out the little white dog to her.

"You have it."

"But, you won it."

"You helped me."

"Still, it's yours."

"Please, Mom. Take it."

"If you're sure. Thank you, Henry."

That earned him another hug, which was worth many little stuffed dogs to him.

Yes, it was a wonderful day, wandering around the park with Mom, and he'd had a wonderful time until he turned a corner and suddenly there was a HUGE pink rabbit looming over him with a frozen grin on its face. Little Henry had panicked and run away and then Mom had taken him to the beach by the park to play in the sand. She sat him down and told him to close his eyes and breathe deeply, and after a few minutes he felt OK again.

Henry decided that he liked the beach a lot. There were other people there, yes, and they walked past him every now and then, but right now none of them were bothering him and his Mom, and so he was content to sit on the soft warm sand and draw things with the end of his paper cotton-candy cone, letting the images flow from him unchecked as they came.

He was putting the final touches on a picture of a dog. A rather good one, he thought, since it looked almost exactly like what a dog should look like. It looked a lot like the little stuffed dog that he'd given to his Mom, which was what he'd been going for. A job well done. The best kind.

He sat back on his heels and smiled at the picture, then reached forward and wiggled his fingers across the sand until the dog was gone and the sand was smooth and blank again. This time, he drew a big, big circle, as big as his arm could draw. Henry liked circles, too. They were smooth and round and he found the symmetry pleasing. This one was especially round and symmetric. Then, he drew a second circle inside the first. That seemed the right thing to do.

He felt rather than heard footsteps that stopped a little distance in front of him. Henry looked up and met a pair of gray-green eyes, staring at him from under a mop of dirty blond hair with dark roots. It was an older boy, tall and gangly, in a threadbare T-shirt and jeans too short for him. But he didn't seem weird or scary in any way. Henry stayed where he was.

The boy smiled at him. Henry found himself smiling back, to his surprise. Then, the boy knelt slowly and extended a long finger. Henry followed the finger as it moved swiftly and surely through the sand, tracing three smaller circles inside the inner one. Then, he began drawing smaller things in the space between the three small circles. Lines and angles. Little characters.

The boy lifted his finger from the sand and smiled at him again. Henry didn't like strangers getting this close to him, but somehow this one didn't bother him at all. The gray-green eyes locked with his, and suddenly a picture formed in his mind…

He reached forward and drew an eye at the top between the two big circles, then smaller figures at the left, bottom and right. He didn't know why they were supposed to be there, or how he knew that they were, just that they were. As Henry drew, the other boy's finger traced symbols in the remaining space between the two circles. They were strange spiky things, and even though he couldn't read them he knew that they were letters, of a kind he hadn't seen before. At one point, the boy leaned close to Henry to fill in the symbols near the bottom of the circles, and he could smell a strange scent on him…strange, but pleasant, like wood or leaves or something like that.

Then, it was finished. The boy stood up and stared at the drawing in the sand for a moment, then met Henry's eyes again. It made him feel strange, the way this boy looked at him, as if he was seeing right through his eyes and into his head...

Abruptly, the boy turned and walked away, and Henry was left looking at the picture. It was unlike anything he'd ever seen before, but its strangeness fascinated him, and he stared at it for a long time. Suddenly, the smooth curves and spiky lines made him feel all weird and frightened, as if he was going to fall into the middle of the circle and never come out. He smoothed it away as quickly as he could. Even when he was done, though, the sand still seemed threatening, as if tainted by the vanished shapes.

"Henry?" his mother called. "Come here, honey. Time for more sunblock."

"Coming," he called back. He got up and hurried to her, and soon the circles and the shapes and the tall blond boy were forgotten.

When they got home that day, Henry's mother called him into her bedroom. She reached for an old red brocade pillow that always rested on the small chair by the closet, and placed it in his arms. It wasn't much smaller than he was.

"Henry," she said, "I want you to have this. When you get mad or upset or sad and you need to be by yourself, you can do what we did today. Remember? Just sit quietly, clear your mind and breathe evenly." She ruffled his hair affectionately. "This will help."

* * *

Much had happened since then. Henry had finished grade school and high school and gone to college and gotten a job and moved into his own place, of course, the usual stuff that was part of growing up. Through all of that, the pillow still stayed with him, every step of the way, first on his bed at home and then on his bunk in college. It lived on his couch now, but when things started getting to him, or when he saw them coming, he put it on the floor and sat on it and let the world slip away. Like this. Then again, in his current situation, he was so disconnected from everything normal that the job was half-done before the pillow had even hit the floor. But he wasn't going to think about that right now. 

His eyes opened as he heard the clock strike two.

_I've been here three hours…it didn't seem that long. Where has the day gone?_

..._and why am I not hungry?_

He concentrated on his stomach, and felt...nothing. Nothing at all. Nor did he smell anything like lunch in the room. So yesterday's magical food delivery hadn't happened. He had nothing to eat. Panic gripped him for a second.

_No food. No food! I'm not hungry now, but I've got to eat sometime…_

This brought him back to the bigger questions. He'd lowered his defenses too far to push them away this time, and they flowed unchecked.

_Maybe…there's nobody watching over me. But there was food yesterday…_

_Was yesterday just a delusion? I don't know. There's no way to prove whether it was or wasn't. I don't know what day it is for sure. Yesterday could have been just another long dream. God knows I've had enough weird dreams lately. Maybe it's been three days instead of four. Or five, or two. I have no idea. _

_I wish I knew why I was here. Why this is happening. Tell me! Whoever you are! I know you're there! What the hell is going on? _

_I know you're there! _

_Please…_

Henry felt his carefully built-up peace of mind shattering in slow motion. That had been just an illusion, too. Like yesterday. But today, he didn't want to shout or rant or beat his head into the wall. He didn't want to do much of anything except get the hell out, and there was little prospect of that happening any time soon.

_If you don't feed me, I'm going to starve in here sooner or later. So, either feed me or let me out. One way or another. I'd prefer to be let out, but somehow I'm guessing that you don't care what I want. Or maybe, you can somehow keep me alive? Without food? I don't know. _

_What the hell **is** it that you want? Are you trying to drive me insane? Because if you are, it's working. I don't know which way is up any more. Not that it matters. No matter what weird, sick dreams I get, no matter how much vodka I drink, I wake up every day to a stuck door and rubber windows and nothing at all to do. Not a damn thing. Yeah, I'm going crazy in here…stir-crazy. Let me out!_

_But you won't. Not until you're ready. Maybe never…which would be kinda pointless, unless you just like watching me lose my mind. Well, I'm not going to give you that satisfaction. I'm going to put all of my energy into staying sane just to piss you off. I'm not going to drive myself nuts worrying about why the door won't open or why Eileen can't hear me through the wall._

_This is **real**__. This is all as real as I am, as real as those cars in the parking lot outside, as real as Braintree's godawful ugly ties. It has to be. It can't all be in my head. Can't be. I can't think straight, can't do most of the things I'm used to being able to do here, but it's all due to real causes. If it's not in my head, then I'm not crazy. I'm not just imagining that the TV is broken. I can prove it. _

Henry crawled forward and pushed the power button on the TV several times, with no result. Then, he reached around the back and unplugged it from the outlet on the wall.

_If I can plug the lamp into this outlet and it works, then the TV must be broken. And if it doesn't work, then the outlet is bad. See? It will make sense, one way or another. It's not crazy, so I'm not crazy._

Flawed logic, perhaps, but it was all he had right now. He turned to the floor lamp by the window, and stretched his hand toward the plug in the wall.

He saw a flash of color out of the corner of his eye. There was something on the little table by the couch. Its bright red blazed in the afternoon sunlight. It looked like…a book. It hadn't been there before he'd sat down, as far as he could remember. He picked it up and flipped through the pages.

_It's a blank book. A nice one, actually…fine paper, signature binding. And there's nothing written in it at all._

As it turned out, the lamp worked just fine when plugged into the TV's power outlet, so it wasn't the outlet…it was definitely the TV. That meant that he wasn't crazy. Not yet, anyway. He should have felt better knowing that, but he didn't.

Henry got to his feet, walked down the hallway, and grabbed his favorite pen from his desk. He dropped the pillow back onto the couch and pushed the table back into place. That done, he stretched out on the couch with his head on the pillow and the notebook in his hands. He opened it to the first page, unscrewed the pen, and stared at the blank paper for a long time, unsure of where to begin.

_My name is Henry Townshend_, he finally wrote. The pen flowed over the paper with just the right amount of resistance. It was the most satisfying thing he'd done in days.

_I've been stuck in my room for three days now. Maybe four. I'm not sure. I have no idea why. _

_This blank book just appeared on my table from out of nowhere. It seems likely that I'm supposed to write in it. So I am. Might as well. Haven't got anything better to do. Perhaps writing things down will help them seem more real. _

_I may as well start at the beginning…_

So he did. Henry lay there with his head on his pillow and wrote and wrote and wrote about everything. He always had been a little vain about his handwriting, which he thought was well-formed with no frills and eminently legible, and he filled page after page of the red book, enjoying the feeling of writing at length as much as the expression itself. It had been years since he'd spent this much time writing anything, by hand or otherwise, and even longer since he'd spent _any_ time writing about himself. He was hardly his own favorite subject, but this time around things were very different. Very, very different.

As he wrote, the light in the room moved across the floor, and the shadows lengthened. Evening fell, as it always did. As the darkness grew, he reached back and turned on the floor lamp so that he could see what he was doing. Just as he reached the end of the previous night, his hand started to cramp up. Still, he plowed ahead, describing that morning and the day so far. The longer he wrote, the less he had to report, which meant that he started to write more about what was going on in his head…and the less he worried about how incoherent it was all starting to sound.

_I'm not crazy. I know that I'm not crazy. This is all really happening, right? I proved it with the TV power plug. The TV is really broken. So is the VCR. I wish I had a crowbar so that I could try to pry the door open, then I could prove that it's really stuck too. I have to be able to prove these things to myself. If I don't, then I won't know if this is all in my head or not. I don't want it to be. Well, if it were, at least it wouldn't be really happening…but at this point, it wouldn't really help. _

_The worst part is not knowing why. The thought of starving to death in here doesn't bother me as much as the thought of never finding out why. It seems so meaningless. But I get the feeling that it's tied to these nightmares I've been having. They seem so real, more real sometimes than this place. They started just before the weirdness here began, and the more this place falls apart, the more real the nightmares seem, and the further into them I go. The worse my apartment gets, the more...yeah, the more interesting the dreams become. It's as if…as if, somehow, he wants me to be more there and less here. As if I'm supposed to want to leave my place behind and stay in these dream worlds he sends me every night. He's monitoring my reactions, I know that. If it doesn't screw with my head completely, he makes it worse. He wants me to be those uncaring, omnipotent things I inhabit in the dreams. To know how they feel and think and why they do what they do. That's got to be important somehow. Maybe that's the whole point. But why…I have no idea._

_I just hope it all stays in my dreams, because I know that those aren't real._

_What's going to happen to me? Why won't he tell me what's going on?_

He underlined the last sentence so forcefully that the pen nearly tore through the paper. That was really the essence of it. There had to be a purpose to all of this, but what it was eluded him. Maybe…

_Maybe if I look at the result, I can get some idea of the purpose. What effect has all of this been having on me? I'm dead tired, worn out, and don't feel a thing. No, that's wrong…I'm terrified of going to sleep, but don't have the energy to do anything about it. I'm confused and I don't trust my own eyes or ears. I'd give almost anything to talk to somebody. Anybody._

Really? He stopped and stared at the page. Yes, that was his writing, and he was too tired to be editing his thoughts in the usual way, so that must be true.

_Weird, huh? OK…what result have the nightmares had on me? Each night, when I wake up after the second one, what do I feel?_

_Be honest, Henry. I want…I want to be him. Whoever it is that I am in the dream, I want to be him. Doesn't matter if I'm a god or a worm or whatever the hell I was last night. He was the best so far. I want to have that power over everything. I want power over life and death. I want to make things happen, to have others do things for me. None of it matters, none of them matter. They're all just there to be used, because I have something that I have to do and I have to get it taken care of no matter who dies or what the cost._

He slowly lowered the pen and reread the last paragraph several times. It was almost like in his nightmares…like those were somebody else's thoughts in his head, not his. But no, they didn't feel alien, not like in the dreams. He'd never want those things in real life, never. He wasn't like that. Or, at least he thought he wasn't.

_Is this really me? It has to be…_

But, then, what was the thing that he had to do?

It had been hours since he'd started writing, and Henry was as confused as he'd ever been. After a few moments, he wrote one final line.

_What the hell do you want from me?_

As he leaned sideways to put the pen on the table, the book slipped from his hand and fell to the floor, face-down. He grumbled and rolled further over to pick it up. As he reached for it, he saw something embossed in the bottom corner of the back cover.

_J.S._

"Who the hell is J.S.?" he said slowly. "Maybe he's the guy doing all of this…or maybe not. But it's not like he's telling me, one way or the other." He pushed himself up and dropped the book back onto the little table. "Whatever. His name doesn't matter."

He laughed at the strange sound…the sound of his own voice, not yelling or screaming or…anything like that. Just _talking_.

"Talking to yourself, Townshend? That's a definite sign of insanity, right?" He laughed again. "Whatever. Not like there's anybody else here to talk to. And I _know_ that nobody can hear me. So I can talk all I want, right?"

He looked around, but nope, there was nobody there to hear him. No sign of dinner, either. Too bad…he really could have gone for some spaghetti, even though he wasn't that hungry. Fortunately, he'd rationed one of the packets of crackers and half of the bottle of chocolate milk just in case. So he crawled into the big armchair by the window and leaned over the back, sipping the milk and watching the people in the apartments across the way.

_Well, if **he's** not going to let me watch TV…_

"And now, the eight-o'clock news. Or whatever the time is. Damned if I know. After all, nothing ever changes in South Ashfield Heights, so it's not like it matters. So, what are the neighbors up to on this fine evening? Over to you, Henry.

"Thanks, Henry. Not much to report out there tonight. Still…looks like it's an off night for the headbanger in 107. Wonder what he does for a living, anyway? Hmmm…usually gone in the evenings, floor-to-ceiling records…event DJ, maybe? Must be a quiet night, because it's just him and his headphones. Meanwhile, the nurse in 106 is also having a quiet night in with her needlework and what looks like a cop show on TV. Too bad I can't see it well enough to watch from here. Always have enjoyed a good cop show.

"Upstairs in 206, the kids are bouncing off of the walls like usual. Man, the noise that must make…I can't imagine having all those kids in one of these apartments. Then again, I can't imagine having kids at all, but that's irrelevant. They have a baby, too, I've heard it sometimes when the windows are open. Still, they seem happy. Good for them. Unlike Richard in 207. Sitting in that old chair of his watching something funny on TV, looks like. That's the only time you'll ever see him smile. Rest of the time he's crabbier than my uncle Al used to be. Granted, living above a music-head and next to an apartment full of little kids would fray anybody's nerves, but still…well, I guess somebody's gotta be the resident buzzkill. There's one in every building. Glad it's not me…it's gotta take work to be that much of a pain all of the time.

"Looks like Fuseli's is just starting to get the dinner crowd. Pedestrian traffic's pretty congested on the south side of the street, between people coming home from work, people going to dinner, and people just standing around doing nothing at all. Must be a nice warm evening out again. The Southfield isn't open yet, but from the looks of things it's probably going to be a busy night. Film at eleven. The hotel looks quiet, but we don't get a lot of visitors around this time of year…too damn hot. People get out of Ashfield to escape the heat. They don't come here.

"Well, that's it from the SkyCam. And back to you, unknown asshole who _won't let me out of my **room**_."

_Haven't talked that much in ages. Enough of that. My throat is raw and I'm almost done with the milk._

Henry folded his arms across the back of the chair and rested his chin on them, watching the lights and the skyline as the deep blue of evening darkened into the black of night. It was a clear, warm summer night, and the stars were shining above the glare of the streetlights. He was feeling…strange, a little light-headed. Almost out-of-body, as if he wasn't really in the chair but was outside the window somewhere, floating, watching everything that was going on. He was there keeping the nurse company, playing with the kids, watching people laugh over dinner at Fuseli's. He was everywhere at once, anywhere but in his chair at the window.

A couple walked out of the doors of Fuseli's, and ran across the street against the light, laughing. They hurried across the other street to the subway entrance, and he saw that they were young, about his age, and beautiful, seemingly without a care in the world. They drew together and shared a long kiss as cars drove by. One honked at them, and they smiled and waved. Then, with a last glance backward, she descended the steps into the subway as he stood at the top, watching her until she disappeared from view.

Pain shot through him. What wouldn't he give at that very moment to have a pleasant dinner with a wonderful woman in a nice restaurant with good food? The idea seemed so remote, more dreamlike and unreal than anything he'd seen or dreamt in the last few days. But, there was nothing he'd rather be doing right now. Of course, there wasn't much he _wouldn't_ rather be doing right now. Hell, even sharing cold pizza with Braintree would be better than this. But he wanted so much more than that, suddenly, and the pain of that realization was almost more than he could bear.

The bottle of wine in the fridge seemed to be calling to him, but he didn't need a repeat of two nights ago, no, thank you. What he needed was…

_I need something to look forward to, I think. Something other than this gray bleakness that fills my days. Something bigger than me. I don't know what, but there's got to be something..._

Now he _was_ sounding crazy. It didn't matter. He was just barking at the moon…which was now rising like an orange flashlight over the Hotel South Ashfield and its strange architecture. At the edge of its roof, twin round holes stared at him like sightless, ghostly eyes. He wondered what it would be like to be sucked into one of those holes...where would you end up? Would you come out of the other one? Or would you fall down to the bowels of the hotel, maybe end up in the boiler room? Maybe they didn't lead anywhere at all...maybe once you fell in, there was no way out...

He suddenly felt very, very weary. There was no way around it. It was time for bed. Tonight, he would lie down on the blanket in his shirt and jeans and shoes, not upright like he had last night. Maybe that would help with the headache somehow. And tonight, he wouldn't fight it. He wouldn't enjoy it, but he wouldn't fight it. He was too burned out to fight. It would just happen.

Whatever it was.


	10. Night 5

He was...himself.

Not some strange reptile or insect or whatever. Himself. He checked to make sure. Yes, he had the right number of arms and legs, the right size. No heavy cotton draped over his body, no helmets or three-fingered gloves or dozens of little feet or any of that. He was truly himself. Back to normal.

...not quite.

Henry sat in a tall wooden chair, feet dangling. His hands clutched the ornately carved arms of the chair, but he couldn't see them. He couldn't see anything, really. The room in which he sat was pitch black, but he could sense that it was very large. Some huge piece of machinery thrummed some distance in front of him. The wood against his back and legs was warm and soothing. He felt like he was floating, just a little.

"Are you ready?"

The voice was a man's, slow and smooth, close by his ear. Henry didn't recognize it, but the man's presence was familiar somehow.

"Yes."

_Ready for...what?_ he thought a moment later.

Images flooded his mind, flowing unbidden from some external source. Images he'd never seen before...

* * *

A small room...a shop, with a few rows of shelves down the middle. On one end, a series of cages held an assortment of small animals...dogs, cats, a hamster or two. In one corner, a cash register sat on a counter. The place seemed to be a pet store. 

Henry was floating down the middle of the store (_floating..._) looking at the shelves. They were full of all kinds of things. He'd never had a pet, but he recognized most of what he saw. There were boxes of dog biscuits, bags of litter, enough cat food for an army of cats...

A man was moving from cage to cage, talking to the animals. He wore old denim overalls with one strap loose, and his dark hair was thinning on top. His face was kindly, and he spoke to the animals gently. He reached an arm into one cage to pet the cat inside, which purred under his touch. It rolled over and exposed its stomach, and wriggled happily as the man scratched and rubbed.

"That's a good tabby. Let me see that foot of yours...does it feel any better?" The man took the cat's paw gently in both hands, and turned it over carefully. "Looks like it's almost healed up. You be more careful next time, huh?"

Henry smiled to himself. _He's a man who loves his work. I can understand that. _

Just then, he heard a door open, then close. He couldn't see who had entered the little shop, but he had a strong impulse to hide. He pressed himself against the nearest shelf.

The man stood up and turned to face his visitor. "Can I help..." he started, but stopped short and peered at the person. "Huh. It's you. Some nerve you've got, coming back here after all this time."

Then Henry saw the man's eyes move lower, and they grew very wide.

"What the...no, don't..."

He backed up, but only managed a few steps before his back was against the row of cages. Then, Henry heard a loud _pop_, and another, and then the room was filled with the sound of gunfire. He tried to duck for cover, but found that he couldn't move.

Bullets swept the room, side to side. The man staggered, then fell, blood flowing from countless holes in his head and arms and legs. Henry braced for a similar fate...but he felt the strangest sensation.

_The bullets...they're passing right through me. I can feel them. No pain, just an odd wriggling feeling..._

The shelves behind him shifted, then toppled onto him. Henry found himself pinned beneath their weight, cans of cat food falling onto him painfully. Still, the _rat-tat-tat_ of the gun continued. The screams of the dying animals tore through him as the bullets could not. When was this going to end?...

After some time, the shop was silent. Shelves and cages lay scattered over the floor, their occupants lying in bloody, furry piles. Food and cat litter were spread everywhere. From under the collapsed shelves, Henry could see the man in the overalls, lying face-up, motionless. Dead. Blood was pooling beneath his head.

_His body...the bullets only hit his arms and legs. And his head. Strange..._

There was a small noise from one of the furry piles. Footsteps approached, and there was a _rat-tat-tat_...then silence.

…_I should be feeling horrified, but I'm not. I can't feel much. This is weird._

The feet came closer, and Henry froze. A pair of large hands descended over the man's body. One held a large knife. As Henry watched, the hands quickly cut open the man's chest and reached inside. After a few moments, they extracted something lumpy and bloody. The something went into a small plastic bag. Suddenly, Henry wanted to throw up, but he held perfectly still.

Then, the knife dipped over the man again, and stroked across his chest several times, as if carving into his skin...

Henry's vision grew fuzzy. As he lost consciousness, _the_ voice echoed in his head.

**Four.**

* * *

He was outside, on a beautiful sunny day. Rows of houses stretched in front of him, behind neat green lawns. It was the picture of calm, happy suburbia, the sort of Rockwellian place where people lived out their lives day after day in tranquility, where nothing ever happened. Nothing at all. The sky was as clear as the sea... 

Henry was floating again, behind a tree this time, watching.

Two kids were throwing a football back and forth. A boy and a girl, alike enough to be brother and sister. They were young, not quite in their teens, Henry guessed. An errant throw sent the ball toward some bushes by the side of a house.

"You suck!" the girl yelled as the boy went for the ball.

"And you throw like a girl!" he retorted.

"What do you expect? I _am_ a girl, dumbass," she called after him.

"Yeah, and that's why I couldn't _catch_ it, dumbass," he replied.

"Watch your language. Mom'll get pissed off."

"You said it first!"

She stuck out her tongue at his retreating back.

She didn't see the flash of the axe as it descended from behind her. Henry opened his mouth to call to her, to warn her, but it was too late. She fell in a spray of blood. The boy was still in the bushes, hunting around for the ball, when the axe fell on him as well. It moved silently, up and down, in a haze of red mist, as the clouds rolled in overhead.

The last of the sunlight glinted off of the shining metal of the knife as it did its work. The hands dropped their awful burden into a small plastic bag, and sealed it tightly against the coming rain. Then, the axe and knife moved back to the girl, lying sprawled in the street. She shifted slightly and groaned…she was still alive, but just barely. Henry flattened himself against the tree, and his head swam as he watched. But, try as he might, he couldn't see the person whose hands were wielding the weapons. He was always just out of the range of his vision...

As the axe cut through the girl's frail body, splintering bone and ripping flesh, Henry sagged against the tree, and slid to the ground. He saw no more.

**Eight.**

**Nine.**

* * *

"…so what's the plan, Gein? Gonna hit the old orphanage again tonight?" 

"…N-n-no. Was g-gonna s-s-s-s-"

"Stay home? Good. Damn tired of skulking around in forests anyway. We're grabbing a burger at the Happy Burger. Wanna come along?"

"N-n-no, thanks."

"Suit yourself. Later."

"Later, S-S-Sein."

Click.

"Damn fool. He _knew_ about this weeks ago. Hell, he came up with the idea."

"Figures he'd wuss out at the last minute."

"Screw him, Bobby. We can do this without him. Let's head over to PRU. Find that guy, what's his name?"

"Yeah. Shouldn't be hard to hit the dorms and figure out where he lives. Place isn't that big."

"Yeah. Jasper would just get in the way, anyway. Damn s-s-stuttering would take forever. Outta here."

"Don't forget that book you brought. I'll grab my camera in case."

Twenty minutes later, the knife was doing its work again. Two baggies, two bleeding lumps and two cooling corpses lying in the moist grass behind Hanford Hall. Henry knew the place well…it was where he'd lived for his four years at PRU.

They had found what they had sought…and so had _he_.

**Two.**

**Three.**

* * *

There was a cold breeze blowing through the trees. Henry could smell the faint scent of wildflowers, which seemed a strange thing in a dark, thick forest. A very dark, very thick forest. Almost impossibly so. 

A dirt path was just visible, running through the trees. Moonlight filtered down and was swallowed up almost before it hit the ground. A break in the trees allowed light into a small clearing off to the side of the path, in which a pool of water surrounded a single pedestal of some sort. It looked like a huge birdbath to him, but it was clearly a birdbath with a purpose.

Henry floated through the trees, trying to remember if he'd ever been there before. Somehow, the place felt familiar, but he couldn't place it at all. Although he couldn't see it, he knew that there was a building at the end of the path, some ways off…he had to get there for some reason, but he didn't want to go…

A crunch, then another. Footsteps were approaching. He moved behind a tree as someone came down the path…an old woman. She was moving slowly, bent from age, clutching a magazine in her hand. Her dark clothing and black hat made her nearly impossible to see. Still, what with the noise she was making in the otherwise silent forest, it was almost unbelievable that she hadn't fallen prey to the things that were rumored to live in these woods.

_I **have** been here before…but dammit, where is **here**?_

"It's got to be here," she muttered to herself. "That evil place has to be around here somewhere. It's close. I can feel it." Then, she stopped suddenly, as if she heard something. Henry tried to move around the tree to see what it was, but he couldn't see anything in the darkness except for the old woman. He saw her black hat lift up, and her hand clench more tightly around the magazine as she stiffened.

"Who are you? Are you one of them?"

She must have known right away that that was the wrong question to ask. Something grabbed her and lifted her off of the ground. He still couldn't see, but he could hear her screaming bloody murder as she was carried off in the direction of the pond. As Henry crept closer, he could hear her asking where her family was, where they were keeping them…and getting no response.

Then, there was a loud splash. He saw water flying as she thrashed around in the pond against the dark hand that held her down. She had lost her hat, and her white hair glowed in the moonlight as she struggled and sputtered. It took her a long time to die.

That knife flashed again, in the moonlight, but for a shorter time. It stroked across the skin briefly, and then the moon disappeared behind the clouds as the old woman's body floated in the pond, hand still clutched around the magazine she'd brought with her.

And everything went black.

**Thirteen.**

* * *

"Happy birthday to you..." 

Henry couldn't place the voice.

"Happy birthday to you...

"Happy birthday, dear Eric...

"Happy birthday to you..."

A whoosh as the candles on the cake were blown out, then…

BAM!

**Ten. Thus was it done.**

* * *

More sights and sounds flowed through Henry's mind like water. Blood and death and screaming and an axe and a spade and a spoon and a chainsaw and everywhere that knife, everywhere that knife. 

For an eternity, they came to him. Men and women, tall and short, young and old, but all with the same look of terror in their eyes as their fate overtook them. He'd never forget that look, even if he couldn't remember all of their faces. Some kept their hearts, and some didn't. Some died quickly, while some took a long, long time to leave this earth. Through it all, he felt the presence of the man beside him, and realized that everything he was seeing was coming from _him_...it all derived from _him…_

He was just a witness.

* * *

The images stopped suddenly. Henry sagged into the warm wood of the chair, exhausted, but very alert. His body was tired, and his senses were drained, but his mind hummed with all that he'd seen. He felt things moving, coming together like puzzle pieces in his head. It all felt like it was going to make sense, not yet, but soon. 

"That's it. That's everything."

The voice was soothing to his ears.

"It's time, Henry."

A hand grasped his and lifted, and Henry slid forward and stood up. The hand pulled him forward, toward the faint red glow coming from somewhere in front of him.

"Now you have seen it all. Everything."

"What do you mean?"

"This is the reason. What all of this has been about, and why."

_The dreams, yes…but there's more to it than just dreams. Everything has happened for a reason. Because…_

"It had to be this way. You see. Now you understand."

And he felt it slip into place in his head. Yes, he did. Everything, _everything_, made sense now. Its perfection gleamed like a jewel in the darkness. What it was that he understood, he couldn't say...but it was there, in his head, complete and self-contained and so _right_.

As he walked forward, toward the glow, the man walked next to him, still holding his hand. Out of the corner of his eye, Henry tried to make out his face, but the light was far too dim; all he could tell was that the man was slightly taller and heavier than him. He was all in black, and his hair hung to his shoulders, long and dark. He seemed part of the blackness.

_Who is this man..._

Henry could feel the answer just below the surface of his consciousness, but try as he might, he couldn't grasp it. It floated just out of reach. Alien, but familiar. Who...

His neck itched. His hand instinctively reached up to scratch, but stopped as his fingertips touched the skin. He'd gotten cut somehow...scratching would hurt. Multiple cuts, deep ones, but he didn't feel a thing from them. Odd. He squinted at his hand in the dark. There was blood glistening on his fingers.

They stopped at the edge of a pool of liquid. Henry saw movement in the dim light... it was the machine that he'd heard before. Something was spinning, circles in circles, in the pool. He heard the heavy splashing and swishing of the liquid. The man's hand tightened around his.

"My brother. Now, truly, we will be bound together here in Mother. You have everything you need. We are ready for the final step."

Henry shook his head in confusion. "I still don't understand."

"Yes, you do."

"No...I mean, what I need..."

_Whatever it is...I can't grasp it, not just yet...almost, so close..._

"You need this too. If you did not, this would not be possible."

The hand gave a mighty pull forward, and Henry felt himself falling into the pool. He hit it with a splash. A jerk on his hand and a second splash told him that his companion had followed him in. Then, the hand pulled him under the surface. He was sinking fast, and his lungs couldn't hold out for long...not in this thick wet blackness...

Henry spluttered, and tasted

_blood BLOOD everywhere oh GOD..._

_oh yes._

And it was all right.

_This is how it should be. **This** is what I need._

He understood now. Completely. He thought he had before, but he hadn't thought about the implications until this moment. What it meant to _him_. Now, he knew. He was a part of all of this, and he needed it as much as it needed him. He had been waiting for this for all of his life.

Red surrounded him, soaked through his shirt and jeans, filled his boots, flowed through his hair. He breathed it in, and drew sustenance from it. It tasted thick and rich and metallic. He could live forever here. He _would_ live forever here. He pulled on the hand, and wrapped his arm around the other man's body as they were sucked under. They clung together in the blood like twins in the womb. The man felt strangely insubstantial, and after a moment Henry realized that he was too...

_Coming home. I'm coming home._

When the blades ripped into him, he felt no pain, and lamented that final numbness.

_I'll never feel that again. Pain, pleasure, joy, sorrow. I'll miss it forever._

* * *

His eyes snapped open. Above him, his ceiling fan spun silently, as it did every night. He didn't need a clock to know what time it was. It took him several seconds to get his arms to move. His hands moved around, checking to make sure that all of his body parts were in their usual places. 

_Nothing missing. I'm in one piece._

He stared at the motion of the fan as a single question filled his mind.

_What…just…happened? _

His fingertips touched his neck and found only stubbly yet intact skin.

_This time was different. It was me, not something or somebody else. Me…and him. That had to be him. I was so close to knowing who he was…**so close...**_

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed again, and put his head in his hands. He was at a loss. The images and feelings and sounds hadn't disappeared with the dream, but were still swirling around in his head, growing fainter and fuzzier by the minute. He wanted to forget, but something seemed vitally important about it all.

_I have to remember, I know that. As much as I can. But…it's slipping away…_

…and several seconds later, it was gone. All that remained were vague memories and images. If the dream had been bad, losing it was many times worse. He took a few minutes to give in to the despair.

Henry stood up after a while and made his way to the bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face and head, and let it run down into his undershirt as he stared at himself in the mirror.

_What the hell is happening to you?_

His reflection stared back at him silently. No comfort there. Was it just a trick of the light, or had something changed in that familiar arrangement of flesh and bone? He ran a hand over his face, and the man in the mirror did the same.

_Good. _

_What did you expect?__ It's a mirror. He does what you do. That's how it works, just like before._

_Maybe. It's getting harder and harder to tell what's real. And the distinction seems less and less important._

_So, what now?_

Henry shook his head, and kept staring. He tried to remember...

_What was it that I understood, just then, just before...it's important. The most important thing. It was the key to everything! I have to remember, dammit._

It hovered just out of his reach, like the brass ring on a carousel. The harder he tried to remember, the farther away it drifted. After a while, his hands released their grip on the sink, and he stood up and reached for the ceiling, feeling things pop and loosen.

The bed was still warm, despite the chill of the dead of night. Henry sat back against the pillow, looking around the room as if he'd never seen it before. Something occurred to him.

_At least I haven't had that nightmare about the ghost tonight. First night without it. I wonder if that means something. I'm not sure I want to find out._

He felt his eyes closing, and fought hard to keep them open, but it was no use. He was being pulled under...

As he slid into unconsciousness, a last thought passed through his conscious mind.

_I can't go on like this. Something's got to happen, soon..._


End file.
